






■■f'---/-v »* 



^y.s' 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 






UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 



MENTAL LIFE AND CULTURE 



ESSAYS AND SKETCHES, 



EDUCATIONAL AND LITERARY. 



BY 

JULIA DUHRING, 

AUTHOR OF " AMOR IN SOCIETY," " PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS, 
" GENTLEFOLKS AND OTHERS." 



EDITED BY HER BROTHER, 

LOUIS A. DUHRING, M.D. 



Philadelphia: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 

1893. 



) 



T5 1^^^/ 



Copyright, 1893, 

BY 

J. B. LippiNCOTT Company. 



Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 



PEEFAOE. 



To edit an incomplete literary production of a 
deceased author must on all occasions prove a deli- 
cate if not an embarrassing task, and especially so 
when this function falls to the lot of an admiring 
and affectionate brother, l^or does a long life 
of the closest intellectual companionship between 
the author and the editor render the labor in any 
degree easier. 

The work of gathering together the material for 
publication was only begun by the author just 
prior to the fatal illness. It has devolved upon me 
to make selections from the miscellaneous manu- 
script at hand to complete the volume. The ma- 
terial is in the form of essays and sketches, which 
may be classified as educational, psychological, 
moral, critical, and literary. Some are brief, and 
perhaps are merely suggestive, but I believe that 
thoughts so expressed on such topics are none the 
less valuable or interesting on that account. They 
were written at different periods, some of them 
many years ago, as the dates show, but, as these 
give utterance to thoughts and opinions similar to 



iv PREFACE, 

those more recently penned, they are of like in- 
terest. Some of them were doubtless never in- 
tended for publication, at least not in this form. 
In all there is an ever-present, strong, deep- 
flowing sentiment, pleading for the better care 
of the mental faculties, especially for the moral 
sense in its many and practical relations to the 
well-being of the individual himself. Those on 
educational problems constitute a connected series, 
while the others might be classed under differ- 
ent headings, but they all concern the higher 
mental life, viewed chiefly from the subjective 
stand-point. 

The main desire of the author was ever to 
endeavor to help men and women to a better 
life through the medium of their moral sense. 
It wae firmly held as a principle that they must 
learn to know themselves, to recognize their 
weakness as well as their strength, and to obtain 
the mastery over themselves ; that they should be 
taught to unfold and cultivate their individual 
lives, thus bringing out the character with which 
Nature had endowed them. It was further main- 
tained that the moral nature, in all its goodness 
and all its perversity, is the part of man best 
worth analyzing and considering; and that the 
development naturally following a better acquaint- 



PREFACE. V 

ance with this sense tends to make men and 
women not only wiser, but nobler, more con- 
tented, and happier. Thus they must be shown 
and made to comprehend the causes of their short- 
comings, failures, and mistakes, before they may 
hope to overcome them. These and kindred ideas 
are illustrated in various themes, not only in this 
book, but also throughout the previous volumes. 

While the matter contained between the covers 
must speak for itself, it may not be out of place 
to volunteer the information that the thoughts 
expressed emanate from an earnest, womanly, 
and loving soul ; from a mature and philosophic 
mind; from one thoroughly honest in her con- 
victions, whose whole thought was applied to the 
study of those problems which bear on the moral 
qualities residing in human beings. In corrobo- 
ration of this statement, the lessons and truths 
permeating the essays constituting " Philosophers 
and Fools" and " Gentlefolks and Others," both 
published some years ago, may be incidentally 
referred to. 

A natural born student of the mind and 
of people rather than of objective surround- 
ings; educated liberally at home and abroad; a 
comprehensive reader; proficient in many Ian- 



vi PREFACE. 

guages ; a traveller, familiar with the people and 
the best thought of all civilized countries, — the 
author was eminently qualified to discuss those 
questions to which she was attracted. The life 
w^as devoted to studying, analyzing, and portraying 
the many and varied subtle and complex work- 
ings of the mind, particularly as they possessed 
a direct and practical bearing, for good or for bad, 
upon the character. The standard of conscience 
was elevated, and her life was marked in the 
highest degree by rectitude and purity in thought 
and action. These attributes gave her at all times 
the courage and strength to speak fearlessly, and 
to contend for the principles she adhered to as 
being of paramount importance for the welfare 
of every one. 

L. A. D. 



OONTEI^TS. 



PAGE 

On Teaching 5 

The Great Importance of the Primary School . . 9 

Moral Influence in the School-Room a Potent Factor 15 

Number and Kind of Studies 20 

How SHALL Children be Instructed? 23 

Classification of Pupils according to Intellect . 28 

Relations of Teacher and Pupil 34 

Public Examinations an Injury 41 

A Child's Sensibilities 47 

On Training Children 55 

Be True to your Individuality 66 

Not like Other People 71 

On Regulating One's Life 75 

Making Plans 79 

Beginning but never Finishing 81" 

On Believing in Luck 84 

The Day-Dreamer 89 

False Positions 94 

Help for the Amateur Author 102 

An Amateur Author's Impedimenta 106 

A Literary Woman's Worst Misfortune 116 

Where, When, and How to Write 119 

The Best Writing 128 

Originality in Reading 132 

Pleasure in Books 138 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

People of the Brain 145 

Dull People's Wit 150 

Mental Endowments 153 

Aristocrats of Intellect 156 

Genius and its Lack 159 

Actors and Acting 165 

The Critics Criticised 169 

Defence of the Press 178 

Matthew Arnold not a Poet 183 

Walt Whitman's So-Called Poetry 190 

Poetry is not Dead 196 

Egypt and the Desert 199 

Verboekhoven and his Studio 215 

Favorite Flowers 221 

Women Wage-Earners 226 

Drunkenness a Crime 232 

Happiness or Unhappiness 236 

Some . Lessons of Life 239 

The Word Soul 247 

Some Thoughts on Religion 249 

"Simplify thy Life" 253 



ON TEACHING. 



"The Application of the Principles of Psychol- 
ogy to the Work of Teaching" is the title given to 
a proposed prize essay. Is there not rather too 
much title here? The one word "teaching" ex- 
presses the subject clearly enough. And why 
psychology, when mind, soul, or spirit is quite as 
good and so much more familiar? To you, a 
student of the mind, nomenclature is of slight 
importance. A score of words from as many dif- 
ferent languages tell you one and the same fact. 
You listen, make your own deductions, classify at 
your convenience. But to the popular ear — the 
one most important to reach — the case is different. 
The names of sciences ought to be put into the 
simplest possible form. 

Why, for example, should there be this senseless 
distinction made between mind and soul, — the latter 
relegated to Sunday, the former to week-days? 
Why this, when the two words mean precisely the 
same thing ? Let us concede that simplicity in Ian- 



6 ON TEACHING. 

guage, as in other matters, is the essence of good 
sense. 

Principles of psychology, while looking grander, 
really means no more than laws of mind, or laws of 
soul. The psychologist is simply one whose mind 
has the faculty of reading human character. Man 
to him is what fossils are to the paleontologist, what 
the firmament is to the astronomer, what art is to 
the artist. 

Mind being in one sense man himself, the psy- 
chologist esteems that fact the most momentous. 
Principles of psychology, then, stands for the same 
idea as laws of human nature. You will agree 
with me that to read those laws is easy enough, 
and that the hard thing to do is to apply such 
reading to the coarse work of every-day life. 

Teaching shares in this general limitation. You, 
the teacher, may know exactly what a pupil needs — 
what scores of pupils need — yet be wholly unable, 
through circumstances, to put that knowing into 
practice. A school, like any other organization, 
requires many kinds of people for its support. In 
the many are various grades of ideas, all of them, 
naturally, regarded by their owners as sacred rights. 
To simplify this recognized difficulty, the organizers 
of schools ouffht to be chosen from anions^ the best 
students of human nature in the community. 



ON TEACHING. 7 

Teaching, as a principle, is limitless. It pre- 
cedes birth, inasmuch as qualities of parents or 
ancestors are transmitted to children. It never 
ends with death, inasmuch as the influence of the 
teacher extends far beyond visible life. 

In childhood life is chiefly instinctive. There is 
no reasoning, no conviction, no clashing of mind 
and heart. Vagueness is our atmosphere. We 
speak or do not speak, feel or do not feel, through 
causes which, albeit very real, are to ourselves 
unknown. Later, in recalling what might have 
been done to help our childish groping, we are 
thrilled with alternate pain and joy, — pain for 
the good we missed, joy for the help we possibly 
may give the childhood of other mortals. 

Children have a marked instinctive personality. 
To act upon that is to help them in the most 
efficient way. The earliest, therefore most impor- 
tant, teaching of children is, unfortunately, not in 
the hands of the few who think, but of the many 
who are thoughtless. Parents, to begin with, ser- 
vants, secondly, have the sole care of children 
during the most teachable years. What these two 
factors do badly — far worse than omitting en- 
tirely — teachers discover to their cost. 

But teaching, like all other matters, is subject to 
general society laws. The kind you and I and our 



8 ON TEACHING. 

neighbors get depends upon the accident of birth, 
of circumstances. The few wealthy people may 
choose for their children any grade of school or 
any kind of private teacher. The majority of 
people, however, must accept whatever school the 
community provides. 



THE GEEAT IMPOETANCE OF THE 
PEIMAEY SCHOOL. 



Public schools are of chief importance as to — 

1. Their organization. 

2. Classification of pupils according to intellect. 

3. Relations of teacher and pupil. 

4. Mode of examinations. 

E'obody, strictly speaking, can be thoroughly 
educated. Teaching, at best, is but an amelioration 
of ignorance. Eecognizing this truth, schools 
should be so organized as to give the utmost pos- 
sible help to children. 

First of all, let there be different education for 
boys and girls. Studies, teachers, methods of re- 
ward, of punishment— let all be strictly applicable 
to sex. Boys are to be strengthened, hardened, 
trained to be future world-combatants. The public 
in a thousand various phases is to be their arena, 
and careful preparation is imperative for even an 
average vantage-ground there. For girls quite 
another sort of life is in store ; wifehood, mother- 



10 IMPORTANCE OF THE PRIMARY SCHOOL. 

hood, liome, — these are the words that express 
woman's happiest destiny. 

Whoever doubts this may go to the Hfe-records 
of women who have carefully sounded the depths 
of feminine human nature, women highly organ- 
ized, whose clear thinking is balanced by ardent 
feeling. The testimony, whether written or lived, 
of such women gives the world its best guidance in 
this question. 

" L'ame n'a point de sexe, mais le corps en a un ; 
et I'une ne doit pas empieter sur les droits de 
Tautre." * 

The public school has in it all the elements of 
society at large. Boys show their manly preroga- 
tives of strength, boldness, ambition, combative- 
ness ; girls show their womanly ones of weakness, 
timidity, romantic tendencies, love of peace. For 
the great middle class this school gives the only 
teaching it ever gets : hence the importance that 
it shall combine the chief elements of training for 
future men and women. 

Schools here are more difficult to manage than 
in other countries because of our mixed nationality. 
This produces singularly complex character. Edu- 



* " The soul has no sex, but the body has ; the one should not 
encroach upon the rights of the other." — Mirabeau. 



IMPORTANCE OF THE PRIMARY SCHOOL. H 

cation cannot eradicate inherited tendencies. In 
one child we see combined the cool head of North 
Germany and the warm sensibilities of Southern 
France or Italy, — an inheritance of temperament 
which means at once wealth and the cares that 
wealth inevitably brings. In another we see pre- 
dominant the phlegm of the Hollander, in another 
the careless impulsiveness of the Irish, in still 
others the self-complacency of the English, the 
shrewdness of the Scotch, the sturdy thrift of the 
Swiss. 

American children show all the best and all the 
worst results of mixed nationality. If they are 
brighter than European children, they are, too, less 
docile, less respectful, less teachable. There is too 
much liberty in the atmosphere. Children, like 
people, are the better for judicious restraint. " It 
is happy for us," says De Mandeville, ^' to have fear 
for a keeper as long as our reason is not strong 
enough to govern our appetites." Children, very 
naturally, have appetites chiefly. American chil- 
dren have a native-born contempt for a keeper. 
Left for the most part to wander at will, they 
often browse upon unwholesome knowledge. The 
clever ones develop usually into that shocking 
species called "precocious," in whom knowing 
much is synonymous with knowing evil. 



12 IMPORTANCE OF THE PRIMARY SCHOOL. 

It is this want of a keeper in the home that 
causes the chief difficulty in the school. N'ot, of 
course, that open rebellion can take place; but 
mental resistance to teaching is too common to be 
even noticed. The child's mind must have respect 
for a teacher before it can believe in and accept his 
teaching. This respect does not come with the act 
of going to school. It is a quality of the mind, one 
akin to honesty and truthfulness, a moral part of 
the child that must be guarded in the very earliest 
years of home-life. 

With the majority this respect is lacking. To 
supply this lack the organizers of schools should 
give the deepest attention to the primary classes. 
It is these that give the first impetus both to mind 
and to morals. There is no social duty higher than 
this. School is greater in power than the church 
by right of frequency, by the law of repetition. 
Five days' teaching in proportion to one day's 
gives naturally greater results. 

The primary school is entitled to the best-trained, 
the most experienced teachers, — men and women 
capable of reading human character. With this, 
gift there could be no conflict between teacher and 
pupil, no forcing of knowledge down unwilling 
throats. 

The noblest result of your teaching is a positive 



IMPORTANCE OF THE PRIMARY SCHOOL. 13 

interest in learning. This suggests the usual rou- 
tine of non-psychological schools. Children are 
made to study a certain book before their curiosity 
in the subject is awakened. Under this regime 
even the most conscientious among them get bat 
little for their pains. Knowing the lesson means 
a valiant struggle with words, a glib repeating of 
them to the teacher, while of actual understanding 
there is naught. To give children the principles 
of spelling or of reading is to give the substance 
that enables the mind to grow. 

With the primary school lies the chief responsi- 
bility. To give unwise training here is to commit 
the child to years of school drudgery with only 
bad results. Finally, when his education is said 
to be finished, in what condition is his mind? 
Twisted, distorted, injured, it is for all thinking 
purposes wholly useless. Instead of wishing to 
advance, it joyfully breaks the long-felt, irksome 
bonds and plunges into physical delights that are 
always at hand to tempt the escaped prisoner. 
The primary school has the heaviest responsi- 
bility. Whatever is neglected there becomes so 
much the harder to teach in succeeding depart- 
ments. Psychology gives a long list of good 
things that the primary school might but does not 
teach. 



14 IMPORTANCE OF THE PRIMARY SCHOOL. 

1. The art of attention, — listening with earnest- 
ness, with respect, with concentration of thought. 

2. The art of observation, — of speech, of persons, 
of facts, of those things printed in school-books. 

3. The art of accuracy, — training children to 
speak distinctly, concisely, neatly, and to recite in 
the same manner. 



MOEAL INFLUENCE IN THE SCHOOL-EOOM 
A POTENT FACTOR 



Children show the same mixture of good and 
had as is found in the same number of adults. 
There is, however, this wide difference : in one 
case eradication of bad is not to be expected ; in 
the other, it is largely within the power of schools. 
Taking the worst cases, — the children in whom 
nature has put but a modicum of brain and a 
barely perceptible moral sense, — it is found that 
training produces a marked improvement. Hap- 
pily, these worst cases are rarely found in public 
schools. In general a hundred children taken from 
the ranks are found to be fairly enough endowed 
to be susceptible to good teaching. 

As to what shall be called good, psychology 
answers without hesitation. First in importance 
should be moral philosophy. Children can just 
as readily be impressed with the morale of school 
as soldiers are with the morale of the army. 

1st. A sense of the privileges of going to school. 

2d. Respect for teachers. 

3d. Personal responsibility. 

15 



16 MORAL INFLUENCE IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM. 

4th. Punishment for self-indulgence, whatever its 
form. 

Children are embryo citizens. What they will 
most need in society the school ought to aim at 
giving them. But, it may be argued, children are 
like their elders ; even when convinced of what is 
wholesome, they often perversely choose the other 
kind. 

Very true. But for these cases society provides 
restraint and punishment. The school must do the 
same. Its moral tone cannot be too high. And of 
moral lessons the most efficacious is to make the 
child pay the cost of his sloth, of his neglect, of 
his passion. This paying is the basis of that all- 
potent factor, self-control. The having or not 
having this factor explains the two extremes in 
society called success and failure. 

To devise punishments for children calls for the 
most thorough knowledge of human nature. That 
they should act mainly upon the moral suscepti- 
bility is granted. Where this moral force is defi- 
cient, then, of course, other methods must be ap- 
plied. The senses are to be appealed to, acted 
upon. Privations of appetite, of sports, of inter- 
course with companions, of anything that is a 
special pleasure to the individual child, should be 
the punishment. 



MORAL INFLUENCE IN THE SCHOOL- ROOM. 17 

Punishment, whatever its kind, can be impressed 
upon the mind as a means of gaining self-control. 
A pupil of good mind, for instance, may be habitu- 
ally careless in preparation. To find out the reason 
and to insist upon its abolishment is effectually to 
help an intellect that otherwise might come to do 
more harm than good to the world. Taking chil- 
dren as they are, it is evident that there is an 
abundance of material that has grown mischievous 
throuo;h absolute nesilect or bad culture. 

Moral philosophy can be taught to young chil- 
dren in two ways. The first, a practical one, is 
through the prudent restraint that makes infrac- 
tions of law, if not impossible, at least difficult. 
The second is through punishment. Neglect, care- 
lessness, disobedience, disrespect in speech or 
manner, infringement of rules, each brings its just 
consequences. To help the child to know himself 
is the best knowledge school can give. To reach 
the moral sense through the mind requires infinite 
tact. There should be nothing forced, nothing 
made puzzling, embarrassing, painful. 

Ill-timed reproof makes a deep wound without 
the least benefit to character. A well-endowed 
child is something exquisitely tender, sensitive to 
countless subtle influences from voice, manner, 
speech. Yet he is no more liable to take shadow 



18 MORAL INFLUENCE IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM, 

for substance tlian is an adult. He judges his 
elders by instinct, through the subtlety called 
presence. He is quick to discern irritation, dis- 
couragement, or disgust in his superior. He feels 
dimly what later as man he sees clearly, — viz., that 
knowledo^e is fathomless. One science leads to 
another, one tract of thought to other and still 
broader tracts, until at last comes the conviction 
that ignorance of most things is inevitable. 

Character, on the contrary, has depths, can be 
sounded. It is something real, tangible, a fact that 
harmonizes with the lowest no less than with the 
highest conditions of life. If the young child have 
had practical moral training, he will later have no 
difficulty in studying moral philosophy in a book. 
Every one knows how easy it is to learn a thing 
already understood as a principle. 

School is the great antidote to the disastrous 
influences of an ignorant home. Not that there 
is lack of affection in parents, for, as Octave Feuillet 
pithily writes, " II n'est pas tres difficile, en effet, 
d'aimer ses enfants; il suffit de n'etre pas un 
monstre."* It is not natural affections that are 
wanting, it is mental light. Training in its sim- 

* *' It is not a hard thing to love your own children ; not to do 
so you would be a monster." 



MORAL INFLUENCE IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM. 19 

plest, therefore its best, sense means developing 
such powers as nature has given. That the mind 
shall do good service, the moral sense must first 
be acted upon. This law applies to the child the 
same as to the adult. 



NUMBEE AND KIND OF STUDIES. 



E'ext to moral influence the most weighty ques- 
tion to decide is the numher and kind of studies. 
Under actual conditions too much is attempted. 
Sydney Smith used to accuse himself of having 
consumed "cart-loads" of superfluous food; to- 
day children may be pitied for having cart-loads 
of knowledge emptied upon their heads. The 
student of mature years must constantly guard 
himself against mental excesses. Attracted by all 
kinds of knowledge, one branch leading to another 
and another, his danger is in yielding to these se- 
ductive forms. Many a mind is absolutely lost to 
the world through sheer dissipation of its native 
forces. Too much of anything is the abuse that 
destroys. In learning the law is as infallible as 
in physics. 

A mind is crowded with facts, with theories. 
Endless vagaries springing out of such knowledge 
produce hopeless confusion. Such a mind is a 
mental rubbish-room. Everything is there, but 
nothing at hand when wanted. 

In schools the crying difficulty is — too much. 
20 



NUMBER AND KIND OF STUDIES. 21 

The knowledge given is far beyond digestion. The 
poor little victims are mercilessly crammed. As 
to what kind of studies, and how many, shall be 
given to children, psychology speaks very plainly. 
The studies are to be adapted to the mind, not the 
mind to the studies. 

What Heine wittily says of Latin and Greek is 
suggestive as to other studies : " Was aber das 
Lateinische betrifft so haben Sie gar keine Idee 
davon, Madame, wie das verwickelt ist. Den 
Romern wiirde gewiss nicht Zeit genug iibrig ge- 
blieben sein die Welt zu erobern, wenn sie das 
Latein erst hatten lernen sollen. Yom Griechi- 
schen will ich gar nicht sprechen ; ich argere mich 
sonst zu viel. Die Monche im Mittelalter hatten 
sonst ganz Unrecht nicht, wenn sie behaupteten 
dass das Griechische eine Erfindung des Teufels 
sei. Gott kennt die Leiden die ich dabei ausge- 
standen." 



^ " As to Latin, madam, you have no idea what a complicated 
thing it is. Had the Romans themselves been obliged to learn 
it, I am certain they would have had no time left for conquering 
the world. As for Greek, I will not so much as speak of it ; it 
would make me too angry. The monks of the Middle Ages were 
not so far wrong when they asserted that Greek was a discovery 
of the devil himself. God only knows what tribulations it has 
caused me." — Reisehilder, vol. i. 



22 NUMBER AND KIND OF STUDIES. 

Southey gives similar testimony. In a letter to 
John Rickman in 1807 he wrote, " l^othing can 
be so little calculated to advance oar stock of 
knowledge as our inveterate mode of education, 
whereby we all spend so many years in learning so 
little. I was from the age of six to that of twenty 
learning Greek and Latin, or, to speak more truly, 
nothing else. The little Greek I had sleepeth, if it 
be not dead, and can hardly wake without a miracle, 
and my Latin, though abundant enough for all use- 
ful purposes, would be held in great contempt by 
those people who regard the classics as the scrip- 
tures of taste." 

The mind absorbs knowledge in proportion to 
appetite. That children are not hungry for school- 
books is not their fault. That they have a keen 
relish of story-books and warm admiration for the 
story-teller proves very clearly the modes in which 
instruction might often be given. 

Oral teaching is the most effectual means of 
reaching young minds. Yet, as every one knows, 
Latin, Greek, and other languages are quickly ac- 
quired by the mind that thirsts for them. To learn 
languages there must be an ear for them, just as 
there must be for music. Without that ear the 
study of languages is drudgery, unproductive of 
the slightest good result. 



HOW SHALL CHILDEEN BE INSTEUCTED? 



After the number and kind of studies comes the 
problem, How shall these be taught? Here are 
school-books, here are teachers, here are pupils: 
how shall they be made to assimilate? 1st. To 
make oral teaching the chief method in primary 
classes is to solve the worst part of the difficulty. 
2d. Recitations should give way to the pupil's ex- 
planation in his own language of the pages studied. 
A good speaker at once arrests the attention, 
awakens interest, persuades the mind to follow the 
subject. The chapter of history that in the book 
seemed but a tedious repetition of names and dates, 
a dreary narration of wars, conquests, and wars 
over again, becomes under oral teaching as fasci- 
nating as a story. People of far-off foreign lands 
are thus portrayed so vividly that children learn to 
think and talk about them as realities. 

K a child can talk he can very soon be taught 
to write. The much-dreaded "composition" can 
be made as easy for some children as drawing or 
music is for others. Children are like grown 

23 



24 ^OW SHALL CHILDREN BE INSTRUCTED? 

people. They like to do the things they can do 
well. Natural bent, of course, decides what can 
be done w^ith ease. The aim of schools should be 
to help most effectually those to whom nature has 
been most niggardly. 

A child of good mind has many thoughts that 
seek expression. Yet, unless taught how to find 
this in simple natural writing, the good mind goes 
to waste. It is a room full of things of varied use 
and beauty, of which the key is missing. Compo- 
sition is the key of the mind. Children are not 
lacking in ideas. Every day brings to them certain 
observations or experiences which should give the 
motive of their composition. If the subject is to 
be a mental one, let it be spelling, reading, geog- 
raphy, — anything, in short, they are familiar with. 
If the subject is to be a social one, let it be what 
they see at home, in church, in school, or on the 
street. To describe a house and its inmates may 
seem trivial enough. But good and bad style can 
just as readily be made apparent thus as in any of 
the preposterous subjects so often given to children 
to write about. 

As proof of the unnatural, illogical mode ot 
teaching composition, we need only look at the 
letter-writing capacity of average school-children. 
With ability to talk fluently, even sensibly enough, 



HOW SHALL CHILDREN BE INSTRUCTED? 25 

they yet cannot put a tithe of that talk into civil- 
ized writing. This results by no means from natu- 
ral stupidity, but altogether from defective training. 
The subject given is usually one on which the chil- 
dren have no knowledge, and hence no thoughts. 
To be obliged to write on an unknown topic results 
in either absolute stupidity or servile copying, — 
juvenile plagiarism. But composition orally taught 
would be at once easy and agreeable. What is true 
of composition is true of every other study. Words 
are allowed to stand for ideas, memorizing for 
reflection, recitation for explanation. Getting 
through the book is erroneously assumed to be 
knowing its contents. 

Oral teaching is worth more than a whole library 
of school-books. Put into practice with tact, with 
eloquence, it is the best of all training influences. 
The human voice, moved by brain and heart com- 
bined, is irresistible. It is this persuading or con- 
vincing of the child's mind that brings about a love 
of study for its own sake. 

To pull down is easier than to build up, — such 
is the common reproach thrown at the idealist; 
and in it are grains of truth. There are, how- 
ever, two kinds of idealists,— the visionary and 
the practical. The psychologist is of the latter 

sort. As a reader of human nature he sees the 

3 



20 -ffOTF SHALL CHILDREN BE INSTRUCTED? 

defective side of even his own theories, his own 
deepest convictions. Applying this to schools, 
then, he pulls down nothing without pledging 
something better in its place. All his theories can 
be translated into practice. For instance, in the 
present system of teaching he sees too many books, 
too many recitations, too much frothy repetition of 
words instead of solid understanding of subjects. 
He sees that children acquire a vast amount of 
smattering, but no love of learning for its own sake. 
Graduating, taking their respective places in so- 
ciety, they become what schools have made them, — 
people at once superficial, pretentious, frivolous, 
people clothed in the worst kind of ignorance, that 
which cannot see itself. 

The practical remedy for this ignorance is better 
teaching. Beginning in the primary department, 
teachers should be required to explain orally the 
lesson of the hour, while pupils should be required 
to give in their own words the facts of the lesson 
studied. This plan, if consistently pursued, would 
give the student his first need, — ability to put into 
clear language the fact learned, or the thought 
suggested by that fact. 

Recitations, as at present conducted, ought to be 
abolished. Children would soon learn the agree- 
able truth that it is not knowledge that is dis- 



HOW SHALL CHILDREN BE INSTRUCTED? 27 

tasteful, but the tedious repetition of vague words 
on a topic they do not in the least understand. 
Docile children are for the most part martyrs to 
a cruel system of teaching. The other kind, whose 
animal spirits are proof against any sort of coercion, 
are commonly in a state of mental revolt. School 
is to them a state of hateful bondage, to which 
they submit only so far as self-interest makes it 
expedient. 



CLASSIFICATIOK OF PUPILS ACCOHDING 
TO INTELLECT. 



How many children out of any one hundred have 
good minds and a healthy moral nature ? So some- 
body asks, with a covert sneer at higher education. 
I do not know how many, nor do I care to know, 
nor is it of the least importance to anybody save a 
statistician, who finds his happiness in answers to 
how many, how much. No, looking at teaching, it 
is not of the least importance to know how many 
bright children, how many dull ones, there are. 

Responsibilities — for the conscientious — are many 
and heavy on this bewildering planet of ours, but, 
happily, they have a limit. With schools and 
teachers there rests not the slightest responsibility 
as to the mental endowments of children. The sole 
problem is to educate, to train, and to develop such 
faculties as nature may have given. Children, what- 
ever their years, however big or little their mental 
inheritance, are to be treated intelligently, honestly. 
Above all, they are entitled to the strictest courtesy, 
this being not in the least incompatible with all 

28 



CLASSIFICATION OF PUPILS. 29 

needful urging, persuasion, restraint. To be able to 
give this treatment, classification according to in- 
tellect is an absolute necessity. Many children are 
very dull at their books. ^N'obody disputes it, nor, 
indeed, would it be worth disputing. To find fault 
with children for being dull would be as cruel as to 
criticise their lack of personal beauty or their pedi- 
gree. Whether pupils be bright or dull is of not 
the slightest importance so long as they are not put 
into the same class. My personal sympathies are 
with the dull ones. The others are well able to take 
care of themselves. 

Clever children are clever largely through tem- 
perament. It is not so much the result of greater 
brain-power as of a facility in using what they have. 
They are the practical little people in the school- 
world. Given so many pages of so many books, 
they learn quickly and recite with the coolness that 
comes of self-confidence, — for, rest assured, bright 
children have always plenty of this. They are 
endowed with what a phrenologist would call self- 
esteem, full, and consequently are not disconcerted 
through fear of ridicule or criticism, which in 
others is often the sole cause of failure. Bright- 
ness of mind does not necessarily include depth. 
In school it puts the child at the head of his 
class, gives him an air of superiority, makes him 



30 CLASSIFICATION OF PUPILS. 

quite an important personage. It is the same 
quality that in society makes the brilliant person, 
one who without mucli depth yet always appears to 
advantage. Ready-witted, fluent of tongue, quick 
to see opportunities, prompt to use them, such 
persons reap all the benefits of self-assertion. 

Dull children are of two kinds : first, those who 
are self-distrustful, therefore timid, reserved, appear- 
ing to disadvantage before others; second, those 
who are dull because of inferior minds. In classify- 
ing, these two kinds ought to be carefully separated. 
The first are dull owing to temperament. They 
are slow in committing to memory because more 
interested in the ideas than in the words. Being 
interested, their thoughts wander. They are un- 
practical in study hour just as in other hours. In 
recitations there is the same difficulty. Knowing 
their own slowness, they are easily discomposed, 
thrown off their balance. The lesson faithfully pre- 
pared is badly recited, may appear not to have been 
studied at all. A harsh tone in the teacher's voice, 
glances from inquisitive eyes, smiles from sarcastic 
lips, may frighten away from the memory every 
vestige of the printed page. 

To be slow at school by no means implies lack 
in brain, but to appear so is as unfortunate in school 
as in society. To be seemingly slow, even though 



CLASSIFICATION OF PUPILS. 31 

possessed of quick sensibilities, often brin^i^s forth 
ridicule or contempt from companions or teacher. 
This causes a perverted state of the mind, ending 
in dislike of study, shrinking from teachers, associ- 
ations of mental worry and shame with school-life. 
By putting into one class minds of similar calibre, 
much of this danger is averted. The scholar, in- 
stead of being hampered by a sense of inferiority, 
is emboldened to put forth his strength, is made 
happy by even partial success. The teacher, instead 
of being harassed by the mixture of quick and 
slow, can devote himself to the needs of the hour. 
Knowing the degree of ability in the class, he can 
confine his teaching strictly to that limit. Dul- 
ness in one branch does not mean inferiority as 
a whole; but it does mean emphatically that the 
mind should have special help in that one branch, 
help given with unflagging patience, with infi- 
nite tact. Classifying minds is the sole method of 
bringing about something special, selected, personal. 
" Then only," says Bacon, " will men begin to know 
their strength, when, instead of great numbers 
doing all the same things, one shall take charge 
of one thing and another of another." 

In classes of mixed minds, education is ground 
down into a system, great labor being followed not 
only by proportionate exhaustion, but by very small 



32 CLASSIFICATION OF PUPILS. 

intellectual results. If conviction on this point be 
needed, we have but to look at masses of so-called 
educated people all about us. How many of these 
show anything harmonious, natural ? How many 
have a true understanding of their own mental 
capacities ? The system of classes usually in vogue 
is more hurtful than helpful. It is a complicated 
scheme, productive of weariness, exhaustion, or 
distaste for learning. Teacher and scholar tend 
to become antagonistic ; consequently, where there 
ought to be assimilation there is conflict, where 
there should be confidence there is distrust, in 
place of energy and pleasure there is either mental 
chafing or prostration. 

Let the adult student recall his condition of mind 
when forced to devote himself for days or months 
to some distasteful mental occupation. Did he 
under such conditions think learning a boon ? 
Would it have helped the matter to be assured by 
somebody holding over him a rod of reproof that 
this irksome task would some day be of benefit? 
That which would chafe and try to its utmost 
limits the forbearance of an adult scholar, we inflict 
upon a child, and then wonder at its perverseness. 
Marvellous obtuseness ! So directly opposed is this 
to nature's mode of action that we ought to be 
surprised at the comparatively small number of 



CLASSIFICATION OF PUPILS. 33 

idle, mischievous, rebellions school-cliildren in the 
ranks. 

If sick in body, children are exempted from 
study. But whether the mind be sick or disturbed 
few teachers take the trouble to inquire. If the 
inquiry be made, the ailment is usually treated as 
arising from sheer perversity. Teaching to be really 
helpful ought to consider the entire child-nature, 
not merely one part of it. In noticing the thrift 
and energy shown to keep children well clad, well 
drilled in all the little arts that conduce to good 
outward appearance, I am not in the least surprised 
that mental affairs come to occupy a secondary 
place in their estimate of the world. 

The closer the study of parents and guardians, 
the better can children be understood. The desire 
to know exists in every child's nature. The benef- 
icent idea of teaching is to gratify that mental 
desire. In those cases where all reasonable and 
moral ways have been tried and found useless, it 
were surely better to abandon than to persecute. 
^tsTature probably has some other design for children 
who persistently refuse to accept book-learning. 



EELATIOII^S OF TEACHER AND PUPIL. 



To say of another person, He understands me, is 
to express the best of life's many good things, — 
friendship. Children know this instinctively long 
before they can put it into words. Even in cold re- 
served natures, the kind that develop into eccen- 
tricity, there is always a strong desire to be under- 
stood. In school this desire is the foundation of 
genuine progress. If the teacher can but bring 
about this understanding between himself and his 
pupils his success is assured. Unfortunately, teach- 
ing shares the common fate of professions in having 
many clumsy workers, men and women not called 
but driven into the ranks. To procure teachers 
well qualified, every State ought to have a psycho- 
logical college. Here the chief study would be 
human nature. 

Children of quick sensibilities are usually timid, 
self-conscious. School to them is but too often 
synonymous with severity, with discouragement, 
with humiliation. Conscientious preparation is apt 
— possibly from sheer fright — to end in failure, 

84 



RELATIONS OF TEACHER AND PUPIL. 35 

which brings down harsh reproaches, sarcastic re- 
buke. Such children need the moral help that 
will enable them to overcome fear of others, the 
ridicule of fellow-pupils, the covert criticism of 
certain teachers. Self-respect can be taught by 
pointing out means of strength. Timid children, 
for instance, are afraid of themselves. They shrink 
instinctively from saying openly what they think, 
from doing what the heart prompts. Allowed to 
grow unchecked, this becomes a morbid self-con- 
sciousness that destroys personal force. 

Fear of giving oftence, fear of appearing to dis- 
advantage, fear of yielding to noble impulses, fear 
multiform and incessant, haunts the mind. Self- 
surveillance of this sort, while arising from perfectly 
natural sources, is irksome, harassing, crippling. 

To show such a child that in its seeming weakness 
lies its actual strength, is to teach the best of mental 
principles. Timidity comes mainly from imagina- 
tion, but the same faculty that in childhood causes 
fear, in maturity yields the power to penetrate, 
analyze, discover. Psychology holds that in re- 
garding the teacher's fitness character should bal- 
ance with mental attainments. Every one knows 
the sensation of receiving information from dis- 
agreeable people. Slovenly speech, superciHous 
looks, discourteous manner, irascible temper, are 



36 RELATIONS OF TEACHER AND PUPIL. 

elements often so mingled with the information as 
to make it worthless. 

]!^ow, school-children are daily receiving infor- 
mation upon various subjects. "Whether this is to 
be a tedious repetition of technical language or an 
interesting account of things depends upon the in- 
formant's manner. Psychology says, whatever else 
is lacking in the teacher, see to it that he is tactful, 
sympathetic. Affection, interest, zeal, attainments, 
— these are good only when governed by courtesy. 
This demands that neither word nor look shall ex- 
press impatience with a child's blunders, surprise 
at his ignorance, contempt for his failures. The 
teacher's entire personality should say simply, I 
wish to help you. The child's feelings are worth 
more than anything he can be taught. Here it 
is that the most conscientious teacher is apt to fail. 
His earnestness often clashes with his pupil's ca- 
pacity. Ambition in the instructor is good only 
when controlled by courtesy. Harsh criticism often 
kills the struggling thought; covert ridicule may 
engender positive hatred. 

To be competent for his post a teacher should be 
well grounded in psychology. He must have in 
himself what he aims at teaching. Unless personal 
character supports his assertions, in vain will be his 
talk of the pleasures of intellect, of the beauty of 



RELATIONS OF TEACHER AND PUPIL. 37 

goodness. He wlio is sluggish, shallow, self-indul- 
gent, can never awaken activity or enthusiasm in 
another. The diiFerence of rank, too, should be 
held steadily in view, consistently acted on. Com- 
radeship between superior and inferior at once 
destroys authority. This fact needs especial en- 
forcement in American schools. A wise teacher 
will never descend to comradeship with his pupils. 
This principle might cost him popularity or affec- 
tion, but would preserve the more important de- 
sideratum, — authority. 

Children in school, as at home, are often sub- 
jected to martyrdom. Only highly-organized peo- 
ple bear in mind the susceptibilities of the young. 
To disregard these — as shallow, thoughtless people 
are all the time doing — is to bring about the painful 
conflicts which disgrace the family circle. Children 
have precisely the same instinctive attractions, the 
same antipathies, the same variations of mood, as 
their elders. The teacher in school has the advan- 
tage over the parent at home in the fact of less 
familiarity. Cases of insubordination, if impar- 
tially analyzed, would nine times out of ten result 
in conviction of error on the part of the teacher. 

Through ignorant handling a child's moral nature 
becomes morbid. Duty, that vague yet mighty 
word so often flung at the wayward child, is not 



38 RELATIONS OF TEACHER AND PUPIL. 

always the beneficent peace-bringer moralists love 
to portray. On the contrary, its exactions often tax 
cruelly the moral energies of the experienced adult. 
It would, then, be strange indeed if children should 
be found at all hours disposed to yield cheerfully 
their private wishes in favor of a task assigned. 
The more susceptible the mind, the greater the ten- 
dency to moods. In such cases extreme caution 
should be practised before exacting method, prompt- 
ness, unquestioning obedience. That a child's man- 
ner should at times indicate coldness or indiffer- 
ence by no means implies want of natural affection. 
It may be simply because his soul rebels against a 
code or a fashion. The teacher of discretion will 
respect these variable currents of the inner life. 
Under no provocation whatsoever will he handle 
rudely what is finer than any instrument ever fabri- 
cated in the material world. 

Physical life and soul-life, although beginning 
and ending at the same instant, are never impar- 
tially treated. The latter is the proverbial step-child. 
What Wieland remarks of the Abderites is singu- 
larly applicable to millions of their blood-relations 
about us : " The good people had never once 
dreamed that the soul could have any other kind 
of interest than the stomach, the liver, and all the 
rest of man's physical organization." 



RELATIONS OF TEACHER AND PUPIL. 39 

The bond between teacher and pupil often grows 
to be one so firm that it outlives every other, and 
for this good reason : all children are eager to learn 
whatever best corresponds to their natural abilities. 
"Whoever, then, discovers these abilities and minis- 
ters to them becomes mentally related to the child, 
— ^the learner. Mental kinship is the closest of 
human ties. 

The teacher, too, is entitled to every consider- 
ation. Like all the world's workers, he has his 
full share of struggle, harassment, exhaustion. Life 
is hard, hardest for highly-organized people who 
have their own complex selves to deal with in ad- 
dition to the outer w^orld. A teacher shares this 
universal hardness. He knows more than he can 
give, sees more than his hands can reach. Of all the 
rebuffs, vexations, and shocks he must endure, the 
most trying is incapacity in his scholar,— incapacity 
not merely to understand but to see any use in un- 
derstandino^. What is to be done with such barren 
soil? Psychology solves the question by bidding 
us not to waste logic on the illogical mind, but to 
point out other things it can do. 

^N'ot what you wish your pupil to be, but what 
nature has fitted him for, should be your guide. 
Private ambitions, whether in parents or in teach- 
ers, must at all times give way to nature's voice. 



40 RELATIONS OF TEACHER AND PUPIL. 

Cicero trying to make an orator of his son Marcus, 
whose inclinations were all those of the soldier, 
suffered the same disappointment that comes to 
many a modern home. 

In the work of teaching, as in other sciences, 
honor comes in proportion to obstacles overcome. 
Such honor often comes, too, as the reformer's, the 
inventor's, the patriot's comes, — long after his life- 
work is finished. 



PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS AN INJTJEY. 



The idea of examinations is good. Parents like 
to know, and ought to be told, what their children 
have done in a given course of months. But this 
" what," fairly investigated, would tell a very differ- 
ent story from that of the usual public examination. 
This stimulates the young mind without strengthen- 
ing it. It is the same specious principle that leads 
" intellectual" young women in society to cram for 
conversation when expecting to meet certain people 
noted in letters or science. One of this sort ad- 
mitted recently that it took but a few hours to fill 
her mind with facts enough to carry on a conversa- 
tion upon any subject whatsoever. 

Doubtless this impromptu knowledge may pass 
current in society. But to the genuine scholar it 
would be simply one of the many forms of intellect- 
ual sham. Such a woman, young or old, is far more 
objectionable than the illiterate one, who when 
natural through honesty is never unpleasing. This 
accounts for the common fact that intellectual men 

so often marry women of inferior minds and breed- 

4 41 



42 PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS AN INJURY. 

ing. Of two extremes they prefer a natural woman 
to an artificial one. 

A mind stimulated in order to appear brilliant 
on a particular occasion gains its object only by 
losing something of greater value, its probity. The 
same principle of sham that underlies social petti- 
nesses is at work in public examinations. By this 
means the best that the school is capable of— to 
awaken love of learning for its own sake — is at 
one stroke nullified. 

Of Americans it may be said as justly as it was 
once said of the ancient Eomans, '' You will find 
the greater number of men both ready in conceiv- 
ing and quick in learning; since such quickness 
is natural to man; and as birds are born to fly, 
horses to run, and wild beasts to show fierceness, 
so to us peculiarly belong activity and sagacity of 
understanding ; whence the origin of mind is said 
to be from heaven. But dull and unteachable 
persons are no more produced in the course of 
nature than are persons marked by monstrosity and 
deformities ; such are certainly but few." * 

The noble idea of good work through patient 
perseverance is corrupted by the desire for sudden 
advancement, for fame at any price. To appear 

* Quintilian, Inst. Orat., Book I. c. i. 



PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS AN INJURY. 43 

well, to outshine classmates, to pose for admira- 
tion, — all this exhibits vanity in its worst form, the 
intellectual one. 

The true aim of education is not to outshine 
others, but to do fairly by one's own abilities. It 
is to advance day by day, swiftly if possible, 
steadily at all hazards, with a given task. That it 
be not admirable in the eye of critics is of trivial 
import in comparison with the approval of our own 
conscience. The going on with fixed intent to 
finish, the working in our best moods, the actual 
worthy finishing, — such is the conduct of the genu- 
ine student. Such, too, under teaching, can be made 
the conduct of school-children. Under teaching as 
now carried on there are many sham students, very 
few genuine ones. 

Some children who could speak eloquently enough 
to one ear would be struck dumb before an audi- 
ence. To judge intellect by this public display of 
dumbness would thus be highly unjust. The bare 
thought of an exhibition, of being called upon to 
display mental ability and self-poise before a critical 
audience, disturbs their equanimity. Their self-con- 
sciousness has its rise in delicate sensibilities that 
require the carefullest handling. Especially is this 
the case with girls. Therefore public examinations 
are for them far more injurious than for boys. 



44 PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS AN INJURY. 

^ Public examinations degrade the work of teach- 
ing to the level of a show. Children are incited to 
rehearse for a performance that overstrains natural 
forces without yielding even so much as amusement. 
In certain characters it fosters vanity, conceit, arro- 
gance ; in certain others it results only in needless 
humiliation, in hurtful bitterness of spirit. In the 
studies for which they are specially fitted children 
require no incentives, only guidance. In the other 
kind they require the most skilful teachers, whose 
help must be followed on the scholar's part by 
patient plodding. 

In education the only spur that psychology recog- 
nizes is from a mental-moral source, — desire to learn, 
the pushing forward to that goal with one's utmost 
personal strength. Examination-day under psy- 
chological teaching would become simply a sum- 
ming up of character-records. Reward, whether 
in the shape of marks, prizes, or simply words of 
praise, would be given to pupils according to honest 
work done in their respective classes. 

Cramming might be called the representative of 
false intellectual training, while competition stands 
for the moral falsity. Both are injurious beyond 
all power of words to portray. In schools, as in 
society, the tendency is to be superficial. To stand 
well before others, to be in such and such a class, 



PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS AN INJURY. 45 

get certain marks, compete for this or that position, 
outstrip companions, — these aims, while containing 
germs of good, are not the positive good to be 
sought. What has my child done towards character- 
development? This is the question for parents to 
ask and for the school to answer. 

Hume sajs, " The great end of all human indus- 
try is the attainment of happiness. For this were 
arts invented, sciences cultivated, laws ordained, 
and societies modelled by the most profound wis- 
dom of patriots and legislators." Public schools 
are without question the most important of these 
" societies modelled." The training of a man de- 
cides the question of happiness or the reverse. As 
this training is, so are his home, his status in so- 
ciety, in his profession, in business, in art, in me- 
chanics. Whatever the natural abilities, training 
determines their adaptation, their good or bad 
working. 

The organization of public schools in a State 
ought to excite a keener interest than the election 
of a governor. That it does not do so proves the 
mental sluggishness of the masses and the crying 
need for truer education of the new generation. 
The knower of human nature alone can fathom 
mental dangers, discover moral safeguards. He 
alone combines the boldness of the reformer and 



46 PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS AN INJURY. 

the charitable judgment of the philanthropist. 
This power is the one that sets all other powers 
in motion. Finally, the psychologist can say with 
Quintilian, "But it is enough for me to point to 
the subject; for I do not teach, but admonish those 
who are to teach." 



A CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 



Is it beneficial to tell a child that he has inherited 
his grandfather's temper or his uncle's self-conceit ? 
Often repeated it will cause a feeling in the child of 
unrealness, a doubt as to his own accountability, a 
mischievous tendency to throw the consequences of 
his own passion or conceit upon said grandfather or 
uncle. Or, if the sensibilities be deep, it may cause 
a painful estrangement between the child and his 
natural guardians. Day by day he grows more in- 
different, more taciturn, more morose. Gradually 
he is alienated from all that concerns home and its 
inmates. 

Home is no home to him in its truest, highest 
sense. A stranger seeing him there would hardly 
take him for a member of the family, so unfamily- 
like are his ways. The child is himself unhappy ; 
others are made unhappy by him ; the causes are 
potent and natural. On the other hand, training 
can do much for such a child. Granted that the 
resemblance of character between child and an- 
cestor exists, certainly it is no fault of the child's 
that the traits inherited are not agreeable ones. 

47 



48 ^ CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 

Inheritance is much; education is more. A 
nephew may inherit vanity and egotism from an 
uncle. Everybody sees the resemblance between 
the two, but everybody does not know what educa- 
tion may have done to foster or counteract natu- 
ral attributes. The uncle may have been wholly 
debarred from refined home influences, left to 
grow up amid dependants and sycophants. The 
nephew may have had every advantage that ju- 
dicious parents and teachers could yield. Could 
we then in justice excuse in the nephew what we 
could excuse in the uncle? Lenience for defects 
or vices is in proportion to our knowledge of pre- 
ceding causes. We can often tolerate disagree- 
able traits of character from a sense of kindness or 
pity. 

The crowning benefit of training is self-guidance. 
Obedience perverted becomes slavishness. Can a 
child ever acquire self-reliance if taught to watch 
every thought and wink of others before acting ? 
Training demands, first of all, a critical inquiry as 
to native qualities. "What is there to work with ? 
to contend with ? to cultivate ? to strengthen ? to 
enlighten? to repress? What are the natural at- 
tributes of the child to be trained? How are 
these to be improved, elevated? How shall we 
prevent them from being injured, deteriorated? 



A CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 49 

The question of decision is one of vital impor- 
tance. 

If this is to be cultivated, the child must be 
taught not to consult parent, nurse, or teacher in 
every trifle, but to use his own judgment, good or 
bad. The gravest consequences of error often instil 
invaluable lessons. Better to suffer many a morti- 
fication in youth than to arrive at manhood without 
decision of character. Training in its best sense is 
simply showing another how to develop his own 
character. All men are teachers ; all men are learn- 
ers. How can we best reach the mind and heart of 
one whom chance places under our guidance? is 
the query which comes to almost every man and 
every woman. 

Let us imagine a woman who has reached matu- 
rity earnestly endeavoring to help a young girl in 
her teens. She might speak somewhat in this 
form : That you love me, dear child, I well know. 
Upon this I build my hopes of inducing you to 
listen to what must sound extremely tedious to 
your young ears. I wish to talk to you about 
yourself, — your character. This one word means 
everything belonging to you, — your thoughts, 
wishes, aims, hopes, pleasures, manners, accom- 
plishments. 



50 ^ CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 

Whatever you think, do, or feel, when with others 
or when alone, denotes character, shows what stuff 
you are made of. What you are at this present 
moment is the result of events over which you had 
no control. What you become hereafter depends 
upon yourself, your inner life and outward exer- 
tions. 

This I would impress upon you strongly that you 
may quickly learn how to take criticism or cen- 
sure. Accept these, whether coming from friend 
or teacher, as directed not to you, but to your 
faults. If told that your manner is unrefined, do 
not commit the fatal mistake of disliking the per- 
son who tells you. Remember, it is the manner 
which is rebuked, not you. Try, dear child, to 
make this distinction, to see the difference between 
scolding and criticism. Those who love you best 
are most anxious for your improvement, and evince 
their love by seeking to remove the blemishes upon 
your character. To direct your thoughts to the 
training of yourself is my aim. 

You are now of an age to observe, to reason upon, 
to understand, to appreciate all that goes on in your 
immediate circle. It is of the utmost importance 
that you should have a clear idea of your own posi- 
tion in that circle. Young as you are, you have 
ideas, opinions, and tastes of your own. These 



A CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 51 

make your position one of responsibility. Those 
living with you derive either positive pleasure or 
positive pain from your society ; those younger than 
yourself are influenced either for good or for evil 
by you. 

In the family, children are companions as much 
as grown people; clear thinking and good-breed- 
ing are just as requisite in one as in the other. 
Of all the attractions of our sex nothing equals 
delicacy of feeling and gentleness of manner ; no 
beauty, no learning, no accomplishment, can com- 
pensate for their absence. The most perfect women 
have this delicacy and gentleness by nature ; others 
less favored must acquire it. That your manner is 
not refined is perceptible to all ; but all do not see, 
as your friends do, that your difficulty arises from 
a quick, excitable disposition — untrained — not from 
native coarseness. 

To know the effect your vehemence of manner 
produces upon others you have only to note how 
you yourself are affected b}^ manner, how you in- 
stinctively shrink from rudeness, how easily you are 
swayed by tenderness. All are susceptible to man- 
ner, although many people unaccustomed to express- 
ing their thoughts could, probably, hardly tell why 
they are alternately attracted and repulsed. 

Home is the best place for the manifestation and 



52 ^ CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 

judgment of character, for there people are them- 
selves. If a stranger — himself refined — were to ob- 
serve you, dear A., in your home during a single 
day, he would know your one great defect. What 
he would discover in one day your intimate friends 
have known many days and years and been grieved 
by it. This one great defect is lack of respect and 
courtesy towards your parents. That you love 
them deeply I know, for beneath the blemishes 
which deface the exterior your heart is sound and 
true. But your habitual manner implies a disre- 
spect often verging upon contempt. 

That coldness and indiflference sometimes actu- 
ally exist between parents and children is sad 
enough ; but that a child should love and be loved 
and yet treat her parents with positive disrespect 
is still worse. You cannot fail to see that your 
temper is the root of the trouble. You are not 
ignorant of what is due to those older than your- 
self. You know the difiference between rudeness 
and courtesy, crossness and amiability, loudness 
and gentleness. You notice manner in others and 
are affected, made comfortable or uncomfortable, 
by it. 

Have I not often heard you say to a member of 
your own family, How cross you are ! It was easy 
to see how thoroughly unhappy you felt. But what 



A CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 53 

was your own state of mind, what your voice and 
manner, when those words left your lips ? "Were not 
you, too, cross ? Were you not committing the very 
fault you blamed in another ? Here is the secret of 
crossness, of discourtesy, — in your own untrained 
character. This it is that gives yourself and those 
who have you in charge trouble. 

What is this thing we call temper ? Let us ana- 
lyze it. As long as all goes well, that is, as long as 
you are not thwarted in any of your wishes, at lib- 
erty to go and come, study, dress, and visit accord- 
ing to your own inclinations, you are amiable 
enough. But things often go ill instead of well, 
and then we have the test of temper. Perhaps 
before you are up one hour you are requested to 
do something you dislike ; perhaps many times in 
the course of the day this occurs. Lo, what a change 
in your face, your manner, your voice ! You are 
transformed from a bright, laughing girl into a 
scowling, angry one. You are womanly in appear- 
ance and feeling, while extremely ignorant of a 
woman's position. 

You have been to school ten years, while, owing 
to lack of home training, you are strangely defi- 
cient in the first rudiments of letters. The strong 
points in your character are all of a practical kind, 
making you quick to see and comprehend every- 



54 A CHILD'S SENSIBILITIES. 

thing pertaining to external life. In mental attri- 
butes you are weak and childish. You have no 
powers of reflection, no love of study. You do 
what is required of you through affection for your 
teachers, but have no conception of the value of 
knowledo-e. You are io:norant and not ashamed of 
your ignorance. 



ON TEAINING CHILDEEN. 



Young people when bodily sound and high-bred 
are the most charming of all human beings. Full 
of vitality and vigor, of elastic step, showing in 
every movement, in every tone of voice, enjoy- 
ment of mere existence, they carry about with them 
a cheery, invigorating atmosphere. This vitality is 
a something indescribable, yet a thing to be enjoyed 
even by utter strangers who pass it on the public 
roadside. Young people bodily sound and high- 
bred ! Do we of to-day give enough attention to 
those two states ? Do we indeed value them at all 
in proportion to other things ? Fine clothes, hand- 
some houses, fast horses, princely yachts, athletic 
games, and, above all, money, are by most young 
people infinitely better understood, therefore more 
valued, than bodily soundness and high-breeding. 

Juvenile misanthropy is by no means uncommon ; 

but it is satisfactory to know that the causes for it 

are not unnatural. What results when a sensitive 

child is exposed to a bad system of training? 

Commanded without judgment, coaxed against 

65 



56 ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 

conviction, scolded unjustly, indulged * capriciously, 
he lives through childhood in a state of wretched 
vassalage. To crown his wretchedness, his masters 
reproach him w^ith not being " bright and happy 
like other children." Is happiness, then, a matter 
of volition ? It might be so implied from the un- 
feeling mode in which children are reproached with 
being cross, fretful, or obstinate. These outbursts 
are evident symptoms of unhappiness, protests of 
nature against ill treatment of body or soul. 

Children may be surrounded with the tenderest 
care and solicitude and yet be always conscious of 
a strong under-current of dissatisfaction, — a state of 
feeling to which various names may be given, but 
which probably arises solely from too meagre a spir- 
itual diet. The young soul is hungry ; it absorbs 
much and requires much, sometimes growing al- 
most fierce in its cravings. But the proper food is 
not always at hand, and there arise frequent bursts 
of indignation at not being understood. 

Such a child is reproached w^ith being quiet and 
morose, not lively like other children. Is there 
not good cause for that quietness and moroseness ? 
Can a child force itself to be other than it is? 
Unhappily, the experiment is too often tried, the 
child being driven to make the attempt, as it were, 
in self-defence; but the result is failure. ^Nature 



ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 57 

may be resisted. Through fear and timidity and 
dread of criticism and ridicule, the child may be 
induced to do and to say strange things, things 
foreign to its tastes and abilities. But revenge in 
one form or another is sure to follow. 

It is not strange that many clear brains should be 
cynical upon the subject of education — in its mod- 
ern progressive sense — when so many sights and 
sounds give evidence of no substantial good result- 
ing from it. When we see an ordinary servant-girl 
evincing far more judgment in the management of 
a child than the mother herself, we may be par- 
doned for doubting whether a long course of the 
best schools is the best preparation for the duties of 
womanhood. To speak glibly of inefficient ser- 
vants is a convenient cloak for the inefficiency of 
many a household queen. Mothers are the chief 
trainers of the human race. They have in their 
hands the morale of intellect, conscience, and man- 
ner. With those three intact, the special trainers 
who follow the mother's regime find their way 
plainly marked. 

The majority of women in the well-to-do classes 

are " well educated," as the phrase goes. In other 

words, they Avere clothed, fed, and sent to school up 

to a certain age. After that come wifehood and 

motherhood, — the highest round of womanly ambi- 

5 



58 ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 

tion. To reach that round is one thing ; to main- 
tain the position with dignity is another and a far 
more difficult thing. In entering a family, do we 
ask, Where was the mother educated? What 
branches of science did she pursue ? How much 
was expended upon masters? We ask nothing. 
We simply give ourselves up to impressions; we 
look, listen, feel ; we come away convinced without 
having heard the argument. 

To say what a woman should or should not learn 
is impertinence to nature. Music and dancing are 
as good for one as hooks and reflection for another. 
Training, in a generous sense, looks to develop- 
ment of natural traits as its end. The degree of 
intellect a mother possesses is of far less impor- 
tance than its soundness. A few ideas of healthy 
growth are worth more to her than a whole cata- 
logue of sciences and accomplishments. 

Plutarch says, " It was not said amiss by Antis- 
thenes, when people told him that one Ismenias was 
an excellent piper, ' It may be so,' said he, ' but he 
is but a wretched human being, otherwise he would 
not have been an excellent piper.' And King 
Philip to the same purpose told his son Alexander, 
who once at a merry-meeting played a piece of 
music charmingly and skilfully, ' Are you not 
ashamed, son, to play so well ? For it is enough 



ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 59 

for a king or prince to find leisure sometimes to 
hear others sing, and he does the Muses quite honor 
enough when he pleases to he but present while 
others ens^as^e in such exercises and trials of skill.' 
Many times when we are pleased with the work we 
slight and set little by the workman or artist him- 
self"* 

Upon the same principle a mother derives far 
greater honor from the management of her house- 
hold than from her performances in music, painting, 
embroidery, or authorship. A woman cannot have 
too much culture; but a single accomplishment 
may consume the time and strength due to the 
home. A woman of culture could not be the mis- 
tress of an illiterate, unrefined home. A woman 
of accomplishments which would be the delight of 
a social circle could not readily reconcile herself to 
domestic confusion, discomfort, and neglect. 

Accomplishments add nothing to a woman's char- 
acter. Save in rare cases, they exhaust her strength 
and breed only vanity or discouragement. It is not 
uncommon to find parents expending means wholly 
beyond their income upon the accomplishment 
which the daughter never thinks of from the day 
of her marriage. To play, to sing, to draw, are 



(JO ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 

terms which excite a smile in the man of the world. 
For courtesy's sake he permits himself to he bored, 
while mentally drawing comparisons with the bril- 
liant performances of professional artists. 

Why are not school-girls more emulous in the 
acquirement of judgment, wit, penetration, those 
character-adornments which will elevate and grace 
their entire future ? Why should girls be taught 
that accomplishments are in any way essential to 
education ? If gifted with marked abilit}^, let them 
labor with enthusiasm at its development. In this 
case it is a source of genuine delight to themselves 
and to the world. To cultivate talents is a term 
which in cultured society must oust the miserable 
counterfeit called acquiring accomplishments. 

To mothers of middle age, of fixed ideas, of self- 
complacent principles, nothing can be said which 
would in the least change their course. They are 
what they are. They must be tolerated, held in 
check, or pitied. To suggest change is in their 
ears to find fault ; to intimate better management 
of servants or children is to interfere; to hint at 
more agreeable topics of conversation than the de- 
tails of the domestic machine is to be over-fastidious. 
Middle age cannot change its habits of thought and 
feeling. Whatever its character, it desires to con- 
tinue in it. 



ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 61 

But to young mothers, those just starting upon 
the most honorable of all careers, every thinker 
has a right to submit his theory. Youth is pliable, 
amenable to innovation, eager for progress, glad 
to adopt plans which promise honor or happiness. 
Young mothers cannot have the standard of 
womanhood too high. Whatever the special attri- 
butes of character, whatever the position in life, 
every young mother may say to herself: My career 
in life is settled. I have a home. What I make 
that home depends mainly upon my character. 
That I have a fair amount of grace and beauty I 
am thankful; but that these will not make the 
house comfortable I am hourly made aware of. 
That I am happy now in my husband and children 
is no warrant for the perpetuity of this happiness. 
My own ignorance is daily forced upon my notice. 
If before marriage there was need for intelligence, 
gentleness, and tact, now there is the same need 
tenfold augmented. Then my influence was indi- 
rect ; now it is direct, positively good or bad. 

If I am to reign supreme here in my domain, I 
must first rule m^^self. If my husband is to supply 
me with funds, he must have proof of my judicious 
outlay. If my servants are to be well trained, my 
supervision must be unrelaxing; if they are to 
respect me, my knowledge must be equal to daily 



62 ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 

demands upon it. If my son is to rely upon my 
judgment, he must hear no silly speech, witness no 
frivolous conduct. If my daughter is to imitate my 
character, I dare not indulge in unreasonahle desires 
or peevish remonstrances. 

Patience with ignorance ranks highest among 
household virtues. We dare not censure either 
child or adult for sins springing from that source. 
But patience does not render us pain-proof. Can we 
avoid a shudder when we hear a mother narrating 
before daughters of tender years a horrid deed ot 
which human folly or crime is the ground-work ? 
Why should they be prematurely enlightened as to 
human depravity? The chief charm of girlhood 
is ingenuousness. The certain result of familiarity 
with the dark side of human nature is to awaken 
suspicion and mistrust. If, through idleness or 
unwise training, girls are over-curious, they can 
readily learn all the details of crime. But it is 
peculiarly inappropriate that the mother should lift 
the veil from the guileless soul of the daughter. 

The training that makes character is a psycho- 
logical process. A. at two years shows traits which 
cause serious discomfort to parents, nurse, and rela- 
tives. Parental joy in the possession of a vigorous 
boy is almost overbalanced by the marked tickle- 



ON TRAINING CHILDREN. ^3 

ness, irritability, and self-will which characterize 
the child. This at two years ! What will it be at 
five, ten, fifteen years ? Yet this very boy in his 
happy moods exercises a rare fascination over those 
who understand him. His defects and peculiarities 
are so clearly his by inheritance that he cannot be 
other than he is. Where afiinity exists between 
parent and child, inexhaustible patience on the part 
of the former is the result. 

Tolerance is an easy virtue when we sympathize 
with the ofiender. A.'s mother, who knows her 
child to be psj^chologically related to herself, feels 
sure that he shares her tastes, feelings, likes, and 
dislikes. A.'s father, who perceives in his two- 
year-old son traits which have not the remotest af- 
finity to his own character, may well look forward 
to future years with forebodings. In such a case 
natural affection may exist between father and 
son ; care on the one side, duty on the other, and 
community of interests, will undoubtedly promote 
peace ; but without affinity there can never be that 
intellectual communion which enables us to com- 
prehend defects or perverseness. 

We may expend earnest solicitude and ardent 
affection upon a child, and yet if there be no 
natural affinity we are continually baffled in our 
attempts to read his mind and heart or win his 



64 ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 

confidence. The child's strange freaks and whims, 
the passion, the antipathies and sympathies, all the 
odd ways which to the observer are so full of inter- 
est, to A.'s father seem wholly unaccountable, — 
nay, if the truth were told, distasteful. Impossible 
to manage the boy ! exclaims the father when tried 
beyond endurance by an ebullition of passion or a 
fit of mulishness on the part of his young son. I 
cannot find out what he wants ; and as for his will, 
no human power can change it when once a thing 
has been resolved upon, if it be only going into the 
next room or opening a particular closet. The 
casual visitor in the house may understand A. much 
better than his own fiither, simply because he reads 
him psychologically. 

How late some things are learned! Possibly 
only in maturity, after passing through a varied 
discipline, does a man learn why he was so peculiar 
a child ; why subject to moods, fancies, and humors ; 
why averse to the common sports of his age and 
sex: why so shy and self-conscious. He knows 
now that these unchildlike traits arose from the 
seeds of inherited ill health, — physical or psycho- 
logical, — that this was ample cause for the over- 
clouding of years which otherwise would have been 
buoyant and happy. 

With disease in the system, how can a child be 



ON TRAINING CHILDREN. 65 

goocl-humored, gaj, joyous? How little genuine 
sympathy there is with children, spite of all the pro- 
fessions made ! How curious to reflect upon the 
utter irresponsibility of children in all that pertains 
to health, temperament, or tastes, and then note the 
absolute ignoring of this fact by their elders ! How 
these last urge, criticise, reprimand ! How they 
vex and irritate the tender souls that come under 
their influence ! 

All this in the name of duty! As if it were 
easy for children to do or not do, desire or not de- 
sire ! The simple fact that children are as strongly 
marked with individuality as their progenitors is 
practically ignored. Sympathy, that faculty of un- 
derstanding and feeling for another's trials, seems 
to be one rarely dwelt upon when the relations be- 
tween parent and child are discussed. E"ominally 
there is a vast amount of love on the parental side : 
virtually there is a vast amount of hurtful misap- 
prehension and needless thwarting. 



BE TEUB TO YOUR INDIVIDUALITY.* 



What a blessing if a. mind like Emerson's could 
gain access to a child of ten years and instil into it the 
strength that comes from such sentiments as these ! 
" Believe your own thought, believe that what is 
true for you in your private heart is true for all 
men. . . . A man should learn to detect and watch 
that deam of lis-ht which flashes across his mind 
from within, more than the lustre of the firmament 
of bards and sages. . . . Great works of art have 
no more affecting lesson for us than this. They 
teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression 
with good-humored inflexibility. . . . The power 
which resides in man is new in nature, and none 
but he knows what that is which he can do, nor 
does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing 
one face, one character, one fact, makes much im- 
pression on him and another none. This sculpture 
in the memory is not without pre-established har- 
mony. "We but half express ourselves and are 
ashamed of that divine idea which each of us has." 

Now, a child of ten could, of course, hardly com- 

* Written in 1868. 
66 



BE TRUE TO YOUR INDIVIDUALITY. 67 

preliencl such ideas. But the spirit of them, if put 
into language suited to his understanding, he could 
appreciate. What an effect would be produced 
upon a child of thoughtful, earnest temperament ! 
How full of truth, of beauty, of strength, are these 
words ! They seem to search the very soul and 
compel it to long for genuine life. 

" Sich selbst ausleben, das ist Alles,"* says Auer- 
bach. But how to do it? Assuredly not by talk- 
ing about it. There is only one way : by realizing 
the sacredness of every moment, by being true to 
the faintest breathings of conscience. 'Not where 
we are, not what we do, but how we are, how we 
do, is the question that concerns us. Where we are 
born, what our talents, advantages, circumstances, 
need never give us anxiety or doubt. Whatever 
has been given, whatever withheld, we must recog- 
nize that some power has placed us here, has 
instructed us how to work. 

We know always far more than we can accom- 
plish. Because we are careless and unfaithful we 
look beyond our sphere ; we long for other means, 
circumstances, gifts. Our highest good is to know 
wherein present duty lies. The past we cannot 
recall or change. Whatever it has worked of good 

* To live your individual life, this is all. 



68 BE TRUE TO YOUR INDIVIDUALITY. 

or evil remains imperishable, eternal. But to-day 
is yours, — with this alone you have to do, to this 
you are to devote the strongest, the best within 
you. What unspeakable happiness fills the soul 
when the present is devoted to high purposes, — 
when each moment is held in the hand as some- 
thing holy, precious, inspired ! How dare we trifle 
away these moments in unworthy occupations 
when we know that immense results are enfolded 
in one and all ! An eternity of woe or bliss may 
lie in a single thought, suggestion, deed. Yet how 
carelessly we flutter on, seeldng only that which is 
fair, pleasant, easy ! 

This bright, clear, life-giving flame within, — let 
us watch it with zealous care, strive to direct every- 
thing by its light. I^To thing is trifling. Our get- 
ting up and lying down, our eating and drinking, 
our doing, talking, thinking, — all are charged with 
weighty consequences of which we can understand 
the full importance only by reading our lives back- 
ward. What we really are is known to ourselves 
only : hence the world's opinion must ever be of 
the smallest importance, if we wish to live truly. 
What are you doing wdth your thoughts, con- 
victions, talents, experiences, conceptions? This 
alone should give you anxiety : upon it hangs 
content or misery. 



BE TRUE TO FOUR INDIVIDUALITY. 69 

Life for us begins with consciousness of individu- 
ality. You must realize that you are one whose 
being and doing shall be unlike that of any other 
mortal, if you are true to self-conviction. However 
similar your abilities or surroundings to those of 
others, you know that in truth they are wholly dif- 
ferent and that they can accomplish what no others 
can. From moment to moment, hour to hour, live 
and put the best of yourself into each. "When 
this is done nothing else need trouble you, — you 
shall know the full meaning of peace. As the 
brain becomes stronger by frequent exercise, so 
the conscience becomes clearer by obedience to its 
laws. It is awe-inspiring to look back into past 
years, to see what we might have been had con- 
science been faithfully obeyed. Whatever we are 
capable of conceiving, we are capable of doing if 
we are but true, strong, faithful. But let there be 
no useless moaning over the past. Cling to the 
present, — it too will soon pass, — realize the full 
value of the gift. N^ow, at this very instant, be 
thankful for thought, conception, desire; bring 
strength out of them all. 

Those powers of which you feel possessed devote 
to some noble purpose, spend your strength worthily. 
Do you not know that at any instant death, de- 
struction, calamity, may fall ? Do not, then, trifle. 



70 J^E TRUE TO YOUR INDIVIDUALITY. 

indulge in ease and comfort. Gird yourself, stand 
erect, prepared to do, to endure, to be true to convic- 
tion, firm to principle. What others have done or 
are doing should be no criterion for you. If you 
are true to the light within, you will do only those 
things you know to be right, whether others ap- 
prove or not. Judge yourself unflinchingly, un- 
sparingly, by your own conscience, intellect, expe- 
rience. Shrink with horror from doing anything 
against this judgment; regard it as transgression, 
however leniently others may pass it by. What is 
innocent for one may to another be a crime. Clear 
and unmistakable judgment can be pronounced upon 
ourselves only. We cannot be too tender, compas- 
sionate, lenient, towards others; nor too severe, 
exacting, determined, with ourselves. We know, 
as no others can, how we are tempted and tried ; 
we know also how we are urged, entreated, strength- 
ened to overcome. How can pride, vanity, conceit, 
exist in a soul that has once looked into itself? 



NOT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE. 



Why do you want to be like other people ? Are 
they so agreeable, so witty, so brilliant, so charm- 
ing, so everything that is admirable, that you 
should strive to be as they are ? You look tired, 
seem weary, of this trying to mould yourself 
after other human specimens ; and, after all, it 
begins and ends with trying. The thing itself can 
no more be done than you can make one horse like 
another horse, one bird like another bird. That 
animals, human or other, look alike, is nothing 
to the point. With the far more important fact, 
the mental character of men and women, lie the 
immense, the unfathomable differences. Here it is 
that you may justly protest, rebel, and exclaim, 
Why should I wish to be like other people ? \ 

Li clothes, in behavior, you do well to conform, 

up to a certain point, to the customs of the day. 

To avoid singularity in these matters is to gain the 

independence that comes of being unnoticed. But 

as to character, there is not one valid reason why 

you should want to be like other people. On the 

71 



72 ^OT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE. 

other hand, there are the best of reasons, abso- 
lutely vital ones, why you should not try to be like 
them. To begin life with this egregious error is 
to forge for yourself a complication of chains that 
must hamper you at every step ; to continue life 
from maturity up to middle age under this painful 
IDressure is to be chafed, fretted, tormented. It is 
living an absolutely false life, while everything 
within cries out for a true life. You are alter- 
nately goaded by your very self into escape from 
bondage and humiliated by failure, by deep shame 
over that failure. \ 

The past has gone, and is beyond recall. Settle 
that fact well in your mind, and do not cry over 
it or bewail the irrevocable. Let it go; bury it! 
Bury it, but do not forget it. In that remembrance, 
bitter as it may be, lies your hope of a stronger life. 
Do not procrastinate. Begin to day, at this very 
moment, to ignore the old slavery, to act in the new 
freedom. Be yourself, whatever happens. Think, 
feel, act, in strict, unswerving accountability to 
yourself Follow this regime conscientiously, per- 
se veringly. Follow it through doubt and trial, 
through ridicule, scorn, through suffering, if need 
be, through martyrdom ! 

Not to be like means to be something else. 
What are you ? what is your position in the world ? 



NOT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE. 73 

Ask yourself. "What by birth, what by training, 
what by experience after becoming your own 
master ? What, after these experiments of one or 
of many kinds, are you fitted for? Are you a 
social creature, adapted to society, its pleasures and 
duties ? Or, are you a recluse, a thinker by prefer- 
ence, therefore a solitary creature ? Eeflect well 
upon all these points before you act. But having 
begun to act, do not hesitate, waver, or slip back 
into old slavish ways. 

There may come a day when you cry. At last 
it is over, ended ! What ? This trying to be like 
other people. You have been foolish, lo ! these 
many years, in trying to be what you were never 
intended to be,— like other people. Now it is 
over! The day came,— you recall it well; just 
where you were, how the day looked, how you 
thought, how you felt. You were at a gay foreign 
summer resort, pretty, picturesque, idyllic even, 
with its mountains, its forests, its sparkling waters. 
But it was not a place for you ; it was for other 
people. You felt yourself enervated, depressed, 
isolated, crippled. You could not live mentally, 
could not think. You saw yourself appearing 
strange to the good people about you, unsympa- 
thetic, unlovable, repellent. You suffered from 



74 ^OT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE. 

that misapprehension ; for in your heart you had 
only the kindliest, humanest feelings for the people 
near you. You could not he like them, but were 
constantly wishing you could do something for 
them. But no, — it could not he, it was impossi- 
ble. Impressionable to a painful degree, you were 
bowed, bent, crushed, under the unhappy circum- 
stances. 

At last the light broke through the clouds! 
You saw the truth, that you were not by nature 
like other people. You did not belong to them, 
ought not to be with them in the close, unavoidable, 
yet restricted relations of life. You had nothing 
against them. They were polite, kind, good, happy 
in their families, in their amusements, in their pur- 
suits. There was nothing in the least to object to 
in them. The difficulty lay in you. You were 
not like them, — that was the barrier, — an insuper- 
able one for both sides. It was nobody's fault. It 
was you who were in a false position : hence you 
were unhappy, and, moreover, affected other people 
unpleasantly. 



ON EEGULATING ONE'S LIFE. 



Regulating one's life, — your life, my life, for in- 
stance, — is there not something amazingly presump- 
tuous in the attempt ? You are what you are partly 
by inherited qualities, partly by training, partly by 
your own efforts and self-indulgence mixed. On 
heredity and training, alias education, in theory 
most thinking people are in accord. On regulating 
one's life, thinking people are so thoroughly in dis- 
accord that the subject is of positively distracting 
interest. Parents, teachers, preachers, lecturers, 
journalists, authors, — all these have a direct and 
enduring influence upon whole classes of people. 
Where one man thinks for himself, tens of thou- 
sands are only too well content to adopt opinions 
the most convenient for daily use. 

The one special principle of society here in our 

own country is to regulate, in reason, one's life. 

If this cannot be done absolutely well, it may at 

least approximate to that. Your personal, natural 

character must first be considered. In modern 

education that personal fact is usually the last con- 

75 



76 ON REGULATING ONE'S LIFE. 

sidered. However, home and school trainmg, good 
or bad, come to a close. You, man or woman of 
twenty, are now at liberty to think for yourself, to 
decide w^hat your life is to be. 

Young women — save in a few so-called privi- 
leged cases, when wealth and fashion decide the 
career — have more of that liberty than they seem 
to have; not so much as young men, of course, 
but quite enough to decide whether they shall give 
themselves over to social ambitions, to music, to 
art, or to domestic routine. 

Regulating your life means simply this : doing 
your best to develop your strongest qualities. 
Whether a mechanic or a philosopher, whether a 
maid-servant or a fine lady, you are sure to have 
something in you worth developing. The com- 
mon, lazy phrase, " I have no gifts, no talents even ; 
there is nothing I can do," only proves the lazy 
conventional ^vay of educating children. The boy 
who hates school might, with a wdse private in- 
structor, become the most ardent lover of science, 
of belles-lettres, of any one of the countless branches 
of learning. 

It is a common fact that the most deeply rever- 
ent mind may dislike the cold forms of sectarian 
religion. The most sensitive, love-craving woman 
may, through fear or pride, appear haughty, indif- 



ON REGULATING ONE'S LIFE. 'J'J 

ferent to men, when in society. Civilized life has 
this curious effect upon certain people : it makes 
them appear quite other than they are. A timid, 
pensive woman of high breeding never shows to 
advantage in society. A high-strung, affectionate 
man may yet have so little self-assertion as to seem 
to strangers indifferent, cold-hearted. Shyness is 
not at all peculiar to woman. It is entirely mental, 
therefore sexless. 

Regulating one's life is so serious a matter that 
it might well be called the ethical principle upon 
which happiness depends. You who find it easy 
to regulate your life are by nature strong, self- 
reliant, therefore self-willed, self-satisfied. To see 
what is expedient or reasonable is for you to do it 
without consulting anybody else. Policy or good 
breeding may make you careful not to offend your 
neighbors, but on the whole you live your life 
bravely. You may not be a great light, but in 
your sphere, and even beyond it, you win respect. 
People in general have neither time nor inclination 
for analysis of character. They take their neigh- 
bors as they seem, as they act, as they talk. In a 
worldly sense, therefore, nothing is worse than to 
confess to weakness, to error of any kind. 

If you are ignorant of the art of regulating life, 
you will naturally let somebody else do it for you, 



78 ON REGULATING ONE'S LIFE. 

— your husband, your wife, your clergyman, your 
favorite author, your intimate friend, — any one 
who chances to be in authority at different epochs 
in your life. If you are in the habit of thinking, 
if you see something in yourself that seems w^orth 
developing, if you are urged to strive, to do battle 
in a special cause, tormented by your selfhood to 
work towards a given end, then you are justified in 
regulating your life yourself. 

Inherited tendencies, well defined, or, quite as 
likely, crossed and counter-crossed until they make 
you appear as inconsistent as a Rousseau or a Mon- 
taigne, will give you plenty to do. Early training, 
too, will have been imperfect enough to provide 
you with a vast amount of matter to be unlearned 
in maturity. Finally, your own youthful follies, 
your mistakes, your errors, your self-indulgences 
of the stage beyond youth, all these, combined with 
powerful and ceaseless influences from social sur- 
roundings, will make regulating your life diflicult 
enough. Yet the attempt is worth all your strength, 
all your enthusiasm. It produces the best sort of 
life. It saves from failure. 



MAKING PLANS. 



First the idea, next the execution. Life worthy 
the name consists of these two forces. These views 
presuppose, of course, a fair amount of moral 
stamina. With a certain moral force at bottom — a 
force given at birth, and which, spite of mistakes, 
follies, and neglects, clings to us till death — we 
derive happiness from making plans. To regulate 
one's self is the first of duties. Only after this 
can any other self be helped. Our plans, then, 
should be these : to be firm and steadfast in devel- 
oping the stores in our brains. Most of us have 
enough, more than enough, of mental accumula- 
tion. As middle life is reached, the hour comes 
for a giving out of what has been gathered. 

O literary aspirant, whatever your sex, age, or 
capacity, begin by being faithful to the gifts given to 
you, by nature or acquired. You especially, woman 
brought up in luxury but not finding your best 
happiness in it, set aside trumpery and externals 
until your brain has had fitting care. Begin with 
that, give it the first hours, the best strength, the 

79 



80 MAKING PLANS. 

most conscientious handling. Habits of luxury 
incited by a quick imagination are the mental 
barriers, the leaden weights, that hold one down 
to mediocrity. Fitted for a higher sphere in life, 
you loiter in the lowlands of commonplace sub- 
servience, in the enervating atmosphere of mean 
pursuits, in the depressing companionship of un- 
related minds. 

To feel yourself well endowed enough to asso- 
ciate with the best does not insure your place in the 
intellectual world. You must show as well as feel 
yourself, must show your mind as it is, give forth 
its natural bent with whatever growth may have 
come from training and experience. Give forth, 
give liberally, unceasingly, give in many directions, 
give at any cost, that man may see what you are 
worth, what not. The what not will be especially 
good for you. From that you will learn your place 
in literature, what you cannot do, what you are to 
concentrate your forces upon. The intellect has its 
conscience, its morals, its development, its working, 
and its work. The morals of the intellect are as 
well worth study as the morals of nations. 



BEGINNING BUT NEYBR FINISHING. 



Have you, dear reader, so far done nothing for 
your fellow-creatures, although always intending, 
expecting, to do much ? If so, confess it with its 
causes, for the sake of those now living, and of 
those who come after you. However humiliating 
the task, it is a useful confession. Failure is an 
ugly word. Lucky he who hears it only through 
the outer world, yet who still believes in himself, 
believes that other people, outside causes, have 
brought it about. Yet this cannot always be 
the case. There may lie before us, spread out 
in damaging evidence, countless proofs of fail- 
ure solely through our own fault. The intensity 
of our suffering then no one save a similar vic- 
tim can understand. One hears of a divine con- 
tent, meaning that perpetual faith in self that be- 
longs to the great artist, musician, or poet. They 
who believe they have failed in life know all about 
a diabolic discontent. 

Yet why have so many failed in life ? The cause 
is not necessarily vice, drunkenness, crime,— not 



82 BEGINNING BUT NEVER FINISHING. 

any of the so-called cardinal sins. The source of 
the intense horror of looking at and confessing life- 
failure is that the eminently moral, no less than the 
vicious, must admit, ^' I am a failure." The non- 
entity of many lies in this simple fact, — beginning, 
never finishing. The habit contracted in child- 
hood, continued into youth, dragged on to middle 
age, ends in an ignominious sense of failure. Amid 
the wonderful appliances of modern education let 
children be made to feel, first of all, their personal 
responsibility in this matter, — beginning and finish- 
ing. A book, a game, a bit of work, an experiment 
on anything, in any direction, must be carried out, 
ended ; this at whatever cost of patience or impa- 
tience, satisfaction or disgust. It is the principle, 
not the thing done, that is at stake ; that in the 
child, for instance, determines whether a habit con- 
tracted is to make or unmake the future man. 

But children, grown people indeed, begin so 
many useless, foolish things, — why insist upon 
these being finished ? Here is precisely the point 
at issue : children and grown people learn through 
their own mistakes to discern the grand difierence 
between wise and foolish. Two or three days, 
weeks, or months spent over a senseless object are 
not by any means wasted, if the worker learn from 
it the art of reflection. "Why begin useless work, 



BEGINNING BUT NEVER FINISHING. 83 

why undertake never so trifling a matter, without 
previous thinking? Better far to be idle than to 
spend strength on profitless work. 

The artist must have his picture in his mind be- 
fore he attempts to portray it with pencil or brush. 
If he begin outwardly before the picture is matured 
inwardly, he will end as many before him have 
ended, — in non-entity. The same principle applies 
to every other art, to every trade, mechanism, to 
every pursuit, to every department of life, whether 
mental or material. The kind of thing engaged in 
is of little importance so far as character is con- 
cerned. The point at once momentous and impres- 
sive is, — finish one piece before beginning another. 

The want of this principle has lost more than 
one of the stranded men and women now either 
clamoring for help or sunk in despondency. !N^o 
hope for them ! Life can be lived but once. Years, 
whether well or ill spent, exhaust the stock of vi- 
tality allotted to each mortal. The lost cannot be 
saved. But the young lives about us may be 
helped ; the young, ignorant, blundering boys and 
girls, — who abhor preaching in proportion as they 
need it, — these are the ones to whom a principle is 
worth more than all else the world can ofier. 



ON BELIEYING m LUCK. 



"We like to close our eyes and dream of fair 
women, of noble men, of angelic children. "We 
like to fold our hands and think of the golden op- 
portunities which are to bring to us comfort, luxury, 
joy. We like to persuade ourselves that we are born 
under a particular star, which accident precludes 
the necessity of hard labor, of patient, plodding, 
energetic action. We like to live in the present 
hour, quaffing eagerly every drop of pleasure our 
senses yield and deluding ourselves with the doc- 
trine called natural rights. We, men and women, 
like to do all these things, and at the end of the 
doing come forward with preposterous impudence 
and declare our belief in luck. It is a supersti- 
tion of the grossest kind. It is inherited, as all 
other superstitions are, from generation to gen- 
eration. It taints natural impulses, encourages 
idleness, fosters self-indulgence, and subverts reason 
through sheer force of habit. 

Of all stumbling blocks in the way of honest 
work it is unquestionably the most formidable. 
84 



ON BELIEVING IN LUCK. 85 

The weak men and women are tripped up by it. 
The strong ones, too, — although the ends they seek 
are different, — are liable to the same tripping up. 
A man believing in luck furnishes himself with 
complete credentials as to honorable intent and 
faithful application, whereas in truth he has not 
made the first effort towards earning a reference in 
the arena of work. With this belief wrapped close 
to his heart, he accepts condescendingly the kind 
of occupation requiring least attention and fatigue, 
as a temporary make -shift. 

Something must soon occur, is the refrain of 
his thoughts. Something — in the form of gold, 
of reputation, or of friends— will presently fall at 
his feet and crave the favor of being picked up. 
Somebody — indefinite as yet in nationality or in 
character — will recognize the extraordinary merits 
of his individuality and ofter a position and terms 
equal to their grade. While thus hugging his 
miserable superstition the years wear on, strength 
ebbs, the brain grows rusty, and opportunities 
vanish. The ennui bred of inertia spreads over 
his entire nature and defies moral science. Facul- 
ties of mind which exist without being used pro- 
duce phantasms far worse to contend with than 
actual physical ills. To dream of monsters is more 
terrible than to encounter them bodily. 



86 ON BELIEVING IN LUCK. 

The man thus believing in luck inculcates the 
doctrine into wife, children, servants, and others 
subjected to his influence. Without acknowledg- 
ing, often indeed without perceiving, the fact, we 
absorb opinions from those with whom we live. 
Our nationality, our circumstances, our neighbor- 
hood even, affect our tone of mind ; but the most 
direct power swaying us proceeds from the human 
beings we daily associate w^th. Choice is indeed 
rarely permitted us. But if Nature subjects us to 
pernicious influences, she furnishes us likewise with 
eflacacious antidotes. Thus every being capable of 
exercising thought may safely analyze the thing 
called luck. According to results ascertained, let 
him found principles, assert facts, and sow them 
broadcast for the benefit of other beings. 

Women, from their position, are perhaps less ex- 
posed to the dangers of belief in luck than men ; 
but they are not exempt. In the nursery, in the 
home circle, at school, ideas and principles hold the 
same importance for one sex as for the other. The 
boy with his hobby-horse, the girl with her doll, 
may both be made to understand that it is not 
chance but carelessness that irreparably mutilates 
the toy. 

Girls imbued with this belief make no endeavor 



ON BELIEVING IN LUCK. 87 

to acquire habits of industry and concentration. 
They obey their elders from fear or necessity, con- 
fidently expecting the day of emancipation when 
they shall obey only the law of self. In the little 
world of school their experiences are of precisely 
the same intrinsic quality as those that await 
them in society. Believing in luck permits them 
to turn from every distasteful task and please them- 
selves with visions of ease, of friends, of honor, 
of admiration, all these without personal effort. 
Launched into society, for the most part in our 
country with slight safeguards save personal char- 
acter, girls are in special need of sound doctrines. 
Believing in such a false philosophy, they place 
no dependence upon the qualities called self-control 
and judgment, but rush recklessly in the wake of 
others who chance to be ahead. Marriage being 
the acme of luck, they make all minor things bend 
to that end. 

If a girl of sentiment, she revels in visions of 
the hero who is to be conjured forth from chaos 
for the express purpose of pouring love and devo- 
tion at her feet. If of worldly tone, she is firm 
in the conviction that she is destined to a high 
social position, with aristocrats of both sexes ready 
to do her homage. If inclined to overvalue gold 
and glitter, she builds in fancy a structure so 



88 ON BELIEVING IN LUCK. 

luxurious that it becomes the envy of half her ac- 
quaintance. The knight who is to conduct her to 
this splendor is of far less importance than the 
splendor itself. The fortune which brings her gold 
and luxury will, she thinks, bring her happiness as 
well. 

In the phases of life which follow matrimony the 
same demoralizing belief leads to endless trouble. 
Housekeeping in her estimation goes well or ill, not 
by her personal management, but by luck. Pur- 
chases, servants, children, everything in every de- 
partment of her domain is subject to luck. To 
argue with such a woman is utter waste of logic 
and of all the cardinal virtues. The close of the 
argument leaves the woman fully convinced, not 
that she is in fault, but that she is the least com- 
prehended and the worst abused of womankind. 
To rise in the morning feeling that the day's entire 
course is dependent upon chance is not conducive 
either to domestic peace or to success in business. 
Believing in luck is equivalent to believing that all 
our personal affairs will work themselves ; that by 
some unseen agency we shall be rich, comfortable, 
and happy without care and assiduity. 



THE DAY-DREAMEE. 



Trying to do many things usually results in doing 
nothing well. The trying to do many things de- 
scribes the mental part of the day-dreamer. To 
dream is but a synonyme of to think. Even in very 
prosaic characters, the so-called thinking is a very 
mixed process, comprising self, wife, children, 
household and business affairs, neighbors, friends, 
church, charities, and the like. In the day-dreamer, 
his so-called thinking is infinitely more complex. 
In addition to positive needs of external life, family, 
friends, business matters private and public, there 
is the much more real, persistent, intense life 
within. He is himself only when not in the actual, 
tangible routine of his daily outer life. It matters 
very little what that outer life is as to nationality, 
rank, wealth, or poverty. He does not live at all 
in the present. His most serious affair, his most 
constant effort, is to lift himself out of his sur- 
roundings into the romance and poetry of his own 
mind. This realm is the perpetual, inalienable 
home of day-dreams. 



90 THE DAY-DREAMER. 

A day-dreamer may be born a prince. If so, he 
spends his few hours of solitude in wishing himself 
born to a lower position, that he might live the 
happier life he dreams of He may be born a 
peasant. If so, he turns away from his humble, 
vulgar surroundings to dream of the beautiful 
things he would see and enjoy, or of the great 
deeds he would do, if only he had w^ealth and 
rank. 

These good people are not as useless as they 
seem. Indeed, looked at from an artistic point, 
they add much to the picturesque, romantic side of 
human life. They have, apart from the dream- 
faculty, usually other characteristics, — such as kind 
hearts, conscientious principles, strong sympathies, 
— which counteract the persistent inner craving 
to neglect the real duties of the day and hour. 
Fspecially is this noticeable in day-dreamers of 
the female sex. Viewed as to their characters, 
they are much weaker specimens than the dream- 
ers of the opposite sex. A woman may long for 
the hour of solitude which permits day-dreaming, 
while forcing herself first to finish her daily rou- 
tine of duties. "While thus trying to finish, she is 
— in many thousands of cases — overtaken by sick- 
ness, misfortune, old age; worst of all, by that 
terrible ITemesis, the consciousness of years wasted, 



THE DAY-DREAMER. 91 

wasted in struggling to do the wrong things. Com- 
pared to that, old age is a pure, tranquil joy. 

Thinking is the day-dreamer's life. He does 
it incessantly, hence at many unseasonable times 
when it mars the practical things which no one 
can escape. Take a single day of his life ; for let 
it be understood that he is not an imaginary 
person, but a real living one. His personality is 
painfully clear. It is sharply defined with all its 
shadows and defects, with all its inconsistencies 
and contrarieties. This personality is set before me 
in its twofold nature, the bodily and the mental. 

You, my friend, were born a day-dreamer. That 
you could not help. You have all your life been 
living the life of a day-dreamer. This you could 
not help. You did not know you were what you 
were by nature. But now, to-day, with your eyes 
opened, knowing positively what you are, you are 
justly held to account. I therefore arraign you 
as a traitor to your inheritance of day-dreamer. 
Your vocation is as clearly defined as that of artist, 
musician, inventor. 

To go back. Take a single day of this your 
present life. In its main points a single day is 
enough to show a person's whole life. In this 
single day, then, you show the error of a lifetime. 



92 THE DAY-DREAMER. 

You are trying not to be a day-dreamer, strug- 
gling to escape what you were born for. Such 
trying, such struggling, of course, availed nothing. 
It simply exhausted you. There you lay on the 
world's broad field, inert, helpless, unhappy. This 
not because of a cruel fate, not because of your 
own iniquity, but wholly because of a false con- 
ception of things. Born a day-dreamer, you tried 
to make the world believe you could do other 
things better; whereas, had you lived the true, 
honest life of a day-dreamer, you could have done 
good work, would have been remembered, perhaps, 
long after your days on earth had ended. 

What is a day-dreamer ? One who thinks morn- 
ing, noon, and night, who sees nothing in the world 
save matter for thought. One who intuitively looks 
outward only to absorb mentally. One who touches, 
feels, experiences, only to bring all within the labo- 
ratory of his mind. A day-dreamer is not, of ne- 
cessity, a poet. There may be intense, ceaseless 
thinking without the power of poetic expression. 
But imagination there must be. It is, indeed, the 
chief element of the day-dreamer's character. He 
thinks of what was yesterday, or ages ago. He 
thinks of what might or ought to be to-day. He 
thinks of the possible good, bad, or beautiful of 



THE DAY-DREAMER, 93 

to-morrow. ITot only to you but to every other 
day-dreamer life is a tragedy of emotions. Let 
those scoff who will at such sentiment, as they call 
it. They scoff because they do not know what 
emotions are. No one can understand, therefore 
no one can sympathize with, the things unknown 
to himself. 



FALSE POSITIONS. 



You may be in one. Its source may be finance, 
profession, marriage, love. Being in it, you chafe, 
fret, worry, vex yourself with incessant questioning 
to which comes no satisfactory answer. You are 
tormented in thought, crippled in action. You find 
your days but a weary repetition of a tedious les- 
son, a painful dragging of disillusions, a martyr- 
dom of the better self you believe in. Last and 
worst, there come hours which force you to admit 
that the bulk of your misery has sprung from your 
own conduct. Whether this was simply weak or 
actually wilful matters little as to results. To talk 
of other people, of others' influence, is but moral 
twaddle. The sole cause of your getting into a 
false position is in yourself. 

Do you want to know your own follies, you need 
but look at, or listen to, your neighbors. Here is a 
man whose grumbling tells exactly what his false 
position is and how he got there. Things are look- 
ing queer, he says. Try as I may to escape hin- 
94 



FALSE POSITIONS. 95 

derances to stead}^ work, I am forced back into a 
false position. My struggling begins to seem a 
sheer waste of strength. Once I had a permanent 
hope, an absolute faith in my power to overcome. 
To-day, under this last stroke, this ten-thousandth, 
there comes over me that crushing sense of im- 
potence, which, in every age, people attribute to 
fatality, to the gods, to God. An easy way to dis- 
pose of a vexing question, this putting on another 
the responsibility that in reality should rest on 
self. 

False positions are peculiar to certain people. 
They are always in them. No sooner are they out 
of one, whether through their own struggles or 
through the assistance of friends, than they tumble 
into another. Age, experience, suffering, all seem 
powerless to effect a cure. Why? To every 
honest why? there is a satisfactory answer. 
Whether this be found in one's self or elsewhere 
matters little : the finding is the sole fact of im- 
portance. One man gets into a false position vol- 
untarily, deliberately, another is drawn in, pushed 
in, dragged in by his neighbors. In the first in- 
stance it may be erroneous judgment, perverse 
sentiment, headlong passion. In the second in- 
stance it is weak will acted upon by strong will. 
It is in this weakness of will — a phase of character 



96 FALSE POSITIONS. 

closely allied to crime — that are found the majority 
of false-position victims. 

Human failure, — mental, moral, social, — with its 
melancholy train of disappointments and disillu- 
sions, one and all, has its source partly in the in- 
dividual, partly in heredity. Through ignorance 
or non-doing a man brings upon himself the ills 
he is now suffering under. Are we not frequently 
forced into unspeakably painful positions simply 
through choosing the wrong road? To accept 
this or that proffer of friendship ; to go to this or 
that country ; to act upon this or that impulse ; to 
promise or to refuse to listen or to shut our ears ; 
to obey or to violate personal judgment or con- 
science ; to yield to the appeal of affection or the 
cry of passion ; to deny the heart, to sear natural 
longings with iron conventionality ; — of such mat- 
ters is not the brain the sole arbiter? Does not 
its decision bring about the true or the false 
position ? 

Here is a ruined merchant. He repeats on all 
occasions to his credulous wife or indulgent friends 
that it was bad luck. Outsiders who are not credu- 
lous from affection know full well that bad luck is 
but a name for certain ugly facts. Mr. X. was 
careless, indolent, pleasure-loving. His principle of 
life was to let other people do the work which he 



FALSE POSITIONS. 97 

had the reputation of doing. Book-keepers and 
salesmen gradually came to know more of the busi- 
ness than the master himself. While endeavor- 
ing to stave off, with every conceivable excuse, he 
could not finally escape the hands of retribution, — 
ruin for himself, wife, children. Broken in health, 
unable to work, humiliated by enforced depen- 
dence upon his family, he is daily goaded by the 
cruel thorns of a false position. Does he or does 
he not see the cause ? I^o one knows. He never, 
whether to family or friends, uses any other word 
save bad luck. 

False positions as regards friends, acquaintance, 
household, are full of interest. Consider the count- 
less irritating results of taking a servant of bad 
manners, of slovenly habits, of a chattering tongue, 
of any one of those characteristics of which a sen- 
sitive mind must detect the signs in a first inter- 
view. You did notice them, but in an unlucky 
moment of specious mental calculation allowed 
reference to bear the palm over innate conviction. 
Instead of following the latter unfailing guide, you 
weakly yielded to somebody else's judgment. The 
servant stayed with that somebody several years ; 
hence must have good qualities, etc. False reason- 
ing leads to false positions. You take the servant, 
and from the first day to the last are annoyed, 



98 FALSE POSITIONS. 

nagged, irritated, mortified, by precisely those char- 
acteristics whose signs you read in the first inter- 
view. 

Easy enough to get rid of an objectionable ser- 
vant ? ]N'ot so ; especially one well recommended. 
A w^oman has a proper pride in not changing ser- 
vants, a kindly interest in the one taken, a wish to 
do what is fair and just to inferiors in station. To 
describe the domestic tortures endured from con- 
tact with a single coarse-natured servant w^ould be 
impossible. It is a something to be felt, not de- 
scribed. But a servant may be trained, taught, 
improved ? Yes, but the nature of a servant can 
no more be changed than can your own. And 
reading yourself, you are forced to confess that in 
the main points you are the same to-day as at the 
beginning. If you were dreamy and indolent as 
child, you are so as man, as woman; you are the 
same in all the gradations of mental or moral con- 
stitution. To refuse to obey mental instincts is for 
yourself a series of daily exasperations. The char- 
acter of a servant cannot be changed by training 
or preaching. In spending your strength on the 
hopeless task you but place yourself in another 
false position. You are the harsh, hard mistress, 
always finding fault, never satisfied, whereas, in 
very truth, these results are but the inevitable 



FALSE POSITIONS. 99 

clashings of your fine-grained nature with the 
coarse one of your ill-chosen servant. 

Another false position into which you may easily 
get, is that of confidante to an unhappy friend. It 
begins with sympathy on your part for certain mis- 
fortunes. You listen, you give earnest attention, 
heart-felt condolence; you are prompted to help 
with advice, with means, with influence, with every 
instrument within reach. This continues, goes into 
years and years, until finally you are rudely awak- 
ened from your dream of faithful friendship. You 
discover that your friend's unhappiness is chronic. 
His trials are not peculiar to himself but to the 
race, his misfortunes are but the consequences of 
his own unbalanced mind or perverted tempera- 
ment. The case is a hopeless one, yet the moral 
invalid cannot see it, is unable to grasp the fact, 
clearly visible to others. 

Society has plenty of these hopeless cases. The 
one important lesson here is the efifect upon your- 
self of this false position. Powerless to assist in 
any tangible sense, you are yet drained to the 
core by the incessant demand upon your sympa- 
thies. Your position, doubtless, is ameliorated by 
your discovery of its falseness, but you cannot 
escape its miseries. At best, it can serve as a 



100 FALSE POSITIONS. 

warning for future cases. To be drawn into a 
friendship through sympathy instead of through 
mental affinity results in many curious and vexa- 
tious complications. 

Here before you is a woman, living in the three- 
fold misery of semi-poverty, dependence, and bitter 
hatred towards the dead, — the last an ugly flaw 
in a character otherwise admirable. It was en- 
gendered by selfish extravagance on the part of a 
mother. Left a widow with an ample portion for 
self and children, she had, slice by slice, devoured 
the capital intended to insure lifelong comfort 
for all. The daughter never forgave the mother 
this crime, as she calls it, and as she will continue 
to call it until the end. To that alone, she cries, 
I owe this my false position in life. My sense of 
human justice does not permit of forgiveness for 
the long series of cruelties thus inflicted upon me. 

Yet, looked at by other eyes, not obscured by 
hatred, her position appears different. Pride of 
birth, love of ease, extravagant habits, — these, in 
reality, are the causes of this woman's present 
false position. These and one more important 
factor, — that bitter hatred for the parent who was 
the primal, but not the absolute, cause. This sen- 
timent, overrunning everything, as a sentiment 
easily may when unchecked by reason, — the power 



FALSE POSITIONS. IQl 

to appreciate both sides, the enemy's as well as 
our own, — this hatred finding a vent in invective, 
poured incessantly upon ears friendly and other- 
wise, may bring about social estrangement. So- 
ciety has its own special sins and their inevitable 
Nemesis. One thing, however, it preserves in- 
tact, — a delicate sense of fitness. This, applied to 
sentiment, makes disrespect to parents a breach of 
propriety not to be forgiven. 



HELP FOE THE AMATEUR AUTHOE. 



Why should you write ? is asked. Why should 
anybody voluntarily write? Is there not already 
enouoch, more than enous^h, of all thins-s written ? 
So I thought in former years, but I do not think so 
to-day. On the contrary, it seems to me that never 
can there be too much of written thoughts, emo- 
tions, sentiments, of mental conflicts, reverses, fail- 
ures, victories. 

'No one can divine what kind of written message 
may prove helpful to another. You turn over a 
page of a seemingly weak, useless book that by 
chance has come into your hand. Suddenly you 
note a sentence that attracts your interest, that 
starts you off on an intellectual or ethical tramp 
that proves of infinite benefit. Yesterday you 
turned over one of those pages. The subject 
written about had been worn threadbare, so you 
thought at the outset. But presently the triteness 
disappeared and you found a disagreeable truth be- 
coming fixed upon your own personality. It was 
102 



HELP FOR THE AMATEUR AUTHOR. 103 

a mental flagellation needed to bring back your 
vagrant imagination to the straight, solid plane of 
actual life. It drove you into reflection, into wres- 
tling with facts versus fancies. 

The teaching intended for another had struck 
home to you. The fantasy your own reason sternly 
rebuked, but could not vanquish, suddenly received 
an effectual blow from an outside source. Help 
came, the tension was relieved, the conflict between 
imagination and reality subsided. Therefore you, 
my reader, who have all your life been given to 
meditation, will surely say with me most heartily. 
There cannot be too much expression of thought 
in writing. "Write, write, continue to write, ye w^ho 
feel it in you so to do. Let the pages go as they 
are, crude, rough it may be, but perhaps suggestive. 
Let them go together with the dreams of those 
hours when they were written. Then life ahead 
seemed delightfully long, overflowing with all sorts 
of possibilities. The years are slipping by full 
enough of opportunities, — slipping by, soon to be 
gone forever. How much is left? perhaps you 
question. J^ot much, at best, reason tells you. 
This present moment now in your hand is all that 
is certainty. Let them go, those odd pages, sketches, 
or what not, intended for future use, future finish- 
ing. Let them go forth in their triteness, their sin- 



104 HELP FOR THE AMATEUR AUTHOR. 

cerity, perhaps only outlines of what once stood 
completed before your mind. 

But suddenly, it may be, the aspect of life changes. 
Dreams no longer satisfy, reality must be touched, 
grasped, held. Not what has been wished for, 
craved, — no, this has gone as something purely 
imaginative, as intangible as the blue ether above 
you. Imagination plays us odd freaks. Until re- 
cently perhaps it has been your will-o'-the-wisp, 
leading you, ay, goading you into every path save 
the tangible one of reality. IN'ow, youth gone, it is 
serving you another trick — or purpose. It drives 
you into feeling that life is coming near the close, — 
that if anything is to come out of it, the life lived, 
you must quickly let go the intentions and cravings 
that once ruled you. 

What lies there in those papers stored away for 
future use represents yourself. It is the best you 
could do at the time, whether last year or yester- 
day. What more do you want ? Your craving for 
something better, higher, nobler, more beautiful, 
has kept you all these long years in bondage. 
Give out now, to-day, what you have written. Do 
not wait for the impossible, — in other words, for 
your ideal, for what you think you could do better. 
You may, perhaps, have no system in your mind. 



HELP FOR THE AMATEUR AUTHOR. 105 

If SO, why try to make the world believe you have 
what you have not ? System in writing is a good 
thing, but good only when it is natural to the per- 
son. Your system, however, or rather the lack of 
it, would not be natural, and therefore would be 
stiff, forced. 

Poor, sensitive amateur author! You shrink 
from sending to the publisher your bescribbled 
crooked manuscript. You cannot bear the thought 
of having such rough copy exposed to general 
view in that big business house, beginning with 
the literary reader and ending with the composi- 
tor. You see them in your mind laughing at your 
scrawls. You want to avoid this if you can. But 
how? By rewriting sundry pages? Away with 
such folly ! Have you not yet had humiliations 
enough branded on your personality ? Enough of 
these mistaken ideas. More than enough of the 
finical weakness that mars the palpable end ! Let 
go your manuscript I Whatever its look or its 
substance, let it go as it is ! Suppose they do smile 
or sneer. Can that hurt your manuscript, interfere 
with the birth of your book ? Away with such 
childish pettiness ! Once and for all time be your- 
self, come what will. 



AN AMATEUE AUTHOE'S IMPEDIMEl^TA. 



Day-dreams, delusions, illusions, impossibilities, — 
are these, at last, recognized as impedimenta ? If 
so, light begins to dawn, and that is at least a 
beginning of progress. Here are some of an 
amateur author's impedimenta : too many-sided a 
character for strength; the tastes possibly of an 
aristocrat, personally and socially ; the thoughts of 
a student, an observer, a moralist, a critic, a pro- 
ducer; the feelings of an artist, innate dislike of 
straight lines, of prosaic utility, of stiiF, cold, color- 
less people and things ; a craving for beauty, grace, 
perfection of form and movement. Yes, all of these 
are hinderances to mental life. 

The amateur author in most instances fails to 
live earnestly. Living in earnest is easy to talk 
about. But doing it, — ah, try that for a single day, 
and tell the result. One tremendous fact there is 
to begin with. The idea of living in earnest must 
be one's own property, not borrowed. This idea, 
then, is a something born in one, always haunting, 
always vexing, always tormenting. We cannot 

106 



AN AMATEUR AUTHOR'S IMPEDIMENTA. 107 

remember a time in our earliest child-life when it 
was not in us. Call it music, call it art, call it liter- 
ary aims, anything that means one's very self. 

Has your past life been a failure ? If so, it is be- 
cause instead of living in earnest, in accord with 
your own idea, the native-born sacred vitality in 
yourself, you have lived a mixed life. What other 
people expected of you was much more earnestly 
done than what your native mental instincts de- 
manded. The past cannot be lived over again. 
But the lesson — the bitter, hard, precious lesson — 
of the past, keep that ! It is hard-won, but priceless. 
It is the one thing that makes your living in earnest 
to-day a glorious possibility. 

To be numbered among impedimenta is the 
lack of favorable conditions for mental work. By 
such conditions the amateur writer understands 
leisure, freedom from petty annoyances, domestic 
and otherwise. That the mind shall work normally, 
in brief, it is to be protected from the irritating 
influences of daily prosaic life. First, household 
companions may be entirely non-sympathetic as to 
one's aims and pursuits. They listen more or less 
patiently: politely would not be the right word. 
Much easier for strangers to be polite, implying, 
as the word does, concealment of real thought or 
feeling. Hearing you speak of your literary aims, 



108 ^N AMATEUR AUTHORS IMPEDIMENTA. 

for instance, a friend or an acquaintance would in- 
stinctively repress his actual opinion of your ability 
or disability. 

Politeness is a semblance of all that is gentle, 
sympathetic, acquiescent. It is this that makes 
intercourse with strangers so much more agreeable 
than that with domestic companions. The latter 
may be incredulous as to your aims and pursuits 
simply because they have seen so many of your 
failures. As soon as they see any tangible results 
of your mental life they will believe in it. There- 
fore do not talk at home of your wishes, your 
thoughts, your ambitions. Write instead of talk- 
ing. Put the best part of yourself into writing. 
There you are certain of your listener. Even if the 
most caustic of critics, he must read carefully before 
he attacks. 

Impedimenta in yourself, impedimenta through 
others, impedimenta through sickness, accidents, 
travelling, impedimenta through disasters private 
or public, — all these must have your closest study 
before you can understand them. After the grasp- 
ing of these varied impedimenta comes the con- 
quering of them. There are many people to-day 
quite old in years while so child-like in mind as 

to think they might have been famous if . 

Each person has his own precious private catalogue 



AN AMATEUR AUTHOR'S IMPEDIMENTA. 109 

of ifs to show in self-justification for non-cloing. It 
helps such persons to bear their social disappoint- 
ment, their commercial bankruptcy, their art, lit- 
erary, or stage failure. For the old there is often 
nothing left to live on except these ifs. It would be 
cruel to shake their belief. Better that they should 
die in error than to recognize too late that life- 
failure has been owing to their own ignorance. 

For the young and for the middle-aged, however, 
there is much to be done by way of help. Let them 
learn first the meaning of impedimenta. Let them 
get it thoroughly into their minds, into their actions, 
into their whole personality. Only after that can 
they, with mingled humility and earnestness, teach 
others the meaning of impedimenta. To young 
men and women who possess mental gifts an im- 
mense importance attaches to first advisers. As in 
music, in art, in foreign languages, the first teacher 
is the all-important one. From him comes the 
principle which is to develop the germ in the 
scholar. Whether that germ be big or little, we 
still need the best teacher for the first lessons. 

So is it in literary life. You who begin need the 
strongest teacher. By strongest, I mean the one 
who starts from the very root of things, from your- 
self, one who will make you feel that impedimenta 
of infinite variety are a part of your life, of every 



110 AN AMATEUR AUTHOR'S IMPEDIMENTA. 

life ; one who will convince you that progress is sim- 
ply a steady, daily working in spite of impedimenta. 
Imagination is often the source of literary failure. 
Possessing a fair amount of imagination, one may 
become interested in so many things that he fails 
to do any one thing well. He is too many-sided 
to develop fully any one side. He is attracted by 
nature, by art, by people, by domestic or useful 
occupations, — in brief, by everything the world 
offers. An amateur author, then, if many-sided, 
rarely produces any good work. The same mind 
forced to work for bread would have produced a 
hundredfold more. 

When the amateur author is a woman, the im- 
pedimenta are still more numerous. A sensitive 
woman is usually timid, self-distrustful, therefore 
yielding to those around her. She, for instance, 
with a strong mental life persistently goading her 
to produce, is yet hindered to an incredible extent 
by family ties, — this assuming, of course, that her 
family, say husband or brother, cannot be in exact 
mental accord with her. Self-distrust, too, has a 
peculiarly harassing effect on a woman of strong 
mental organization. Thinking incessantly without 
the natural outlet of production causes a damaging 
overflow. 



AN AMATEUR AUTHORS IMPEDIMENTA, m 

For instance, such a woman writes because she 
cannot help it, but self-distrust makes her deem her 
writing of no value for publication. She writes 
and writes, but underrates her work. She shrinks 
from seeking a market for it simply because of self- 
distrust. This arises from what phrenologists call 
small hope and large reverence. In a woman shel- 
tered from rude contact wdth the world it produces 
great respect for other people's ability, judgment, 
wishes. From childhood to old age there is ahvays 
the tendency to believe others better and wiser than 
they are. 

Writing of impedimenta, another big obstacle 
comes to mind, — womanly pride in household mat- 
ters ! How much mental life has an amateur au- 
thor, if a woman, lost through that pride ! She 
can estimate only too clearly, too nearly. She can- 
not put that estimate into words, but she feels it, 
a sharp, grinding, torturing instrument of self- 
reproach. 

Womanly pride ! Let her look at it boldly, fear- 
lessly, and avow its results. Desire for an ideal 
household ! That was the beginning. How long 
ago ? When she first felt the pressure of responsi- 
bility, at intervals in girlhood, afterwards during 
longer periods in womanhood. Her native ideality 
touched by household matters resulted in this, — a 



112 AN AMATEUR AUTHOR'S IMPEDIMENTA. 

craving for spotlessness, prettiness, comfort for 
highest and lowest about yon. 

Domestic economy, under the modest alias of 
home, seemed to be her first and most serious duty. 
Until those endless petty recurring demands were 
satisfied she thought it wrong to heed mental aspira- 
tions. They were stoically thrust aside, compelled 
to wait until home was in order. Ideality turned 
towards the practical brings about this result, — a 
many-sided creature, good for nothing in particular. 

In a man it makes the vacillating, spasmodic, 
erratic worker. He begins life ardently, tries many 
things, ends in failure. In the woman it causes 
ceaseless striving without accomplishing, ending in 
cutting self-reproach. Ideality makes her see the 
ought-to-be in domestic life, while that same ideality 
hinders the doing of the ought-to-be-done. Result, 
— clashing of thoughts, emotions, regrets, humilia- 
tions. 

The awaking from this day-dream — yes, it may 
come after a while, but it may be late, very late, 
for life-work. Impedimenta recognized are not so 
easily thrown off. Family affections, conscience, 
mental aims, social duties, so called, are a hamper- 
ing to mental development, at once positive and 
galling as chains. All these subject to ideality 
make early womanhood a ceaseless struggle. Had 



AN AMATEUR AUTHORS IMPEDIMENTA. 113 

hope been lost she could not have lived at all. Her 
hope was to finish her practical duties and thus gain 
the privilege of the non-practical author-life. Poor 
little woman ! Timid, self-distrustful, humble to 
excessive self-humiliation, she drags through all her 
young-womanhood with these leading impedimenta 
on body and soul. 

Out of that suffering comes the truth that women 
of such temperament should hear : Live your own 
life bravely. Accept the penalties of that living, — 
viz., harsh thoughts, bitter words, cruel slanders, all 
the mental kicks and moral buffe tings that come 
from the unthinking crowd. Bear everything, and 
never give up trying to live your own life bravely. 
Conscience is as likely to go astray in one direction 
as in another. It may make bad seem good to 
you. Most of us could recall countless occa- 
sions when conscience, so called, led us away from 
mental pursuits. Study was the work nature fitted 
you for and urged you to do. It was therefore 
your simple duty to keep on and on in that direc- 
tion. But if you were a timid young girl, a self- 
distrustful woman, were driven to and fro, now by 
conscience, now by ideality, until finally you grew 
into that strange character called a complex woman. 
Your native qualities beaten and battered out of 
shape, you could not appear otherwise than complex. 



114 AN AMATEUR AUTHOR'S IMPEDIMENTA. 

Mental gymnastics are likewise impedimenta to 
mental life. The amateur author has had more 
than enough exercise of that sort. No wonder that 
his writings are scrappy, jerky, helter-skelter. 
Mental gymnastics are useful when taken moder- 
ately. To continue them daily, hourly, is to spend 
one's strength aimlessly. Taking numberless notes 
is one most popular form of mental gymnastics in 
which the amateur author indulges. 

Too many notes are as crippling to the author as 
too many models are to the artist. Suggestion is in 
itself good, but over-suggestion results in a super- 
fluity that ends in despair. The artist who knows 
the art of finishing takes one model, not fifty, at a 
time. The author does the same. Instead of heap- 
ing up notes, he writes on one theme until the pages 
take some sort of shape, and then lets them go, 
polished or otherwise : the " otherwise" usually 
makes the best w^ork, the kind that wins human 
hearts. 

Have you fallen into the pernicious habit of taking 
notes ? Do you now and then, in a fit of virtuous 
love of order, set to work to arrange, classify those 
notes ? And all the time, while doing it, are you 
protesting against the drudgery, vexing your mind 
with the varied subjects rising up and spreading out 
one after the other, one running into the other, 



AN AMATEUR AUTHOR'S IMPEDIMENTA. II5 

overlapping confusedly, interminably, hopelessly? 
Finally, after hours of arranging, so called, what is 
the result ? Instead of one chapter in progress or 
ended, you see before your wearied eyes a shapeless 
mass of notes. Your brain is bewildered, irritated, 
with the hydra-headed work, and in sheer disgust 
flings itself into any frivolity as a relief from that 
painful mental pressure. 



A LITERARY WOMAN'S WORST MISFORTUNE. 



"What is it? Can it be missing matrimony? 
No. Losing her fortune? No. Losing health? 
No. Losing beauty ? No. Now, these are all very 
serious, even lamentable, losses, but by no means 
the worst. Missing matrimony is undoubtedly 
what the world calls a dead failure. It looks upon 
you with pity, yes, even as being unfortunate. A 
long list of disadvantages arising therefrom, begin- 
ning with the physical and ending with the moral, 
might be adduced in proof. Somewhat the same 
might be stated of losing fortune, of losing health, 
of losing beauty. 

But among misfortunes in general there is 
always one that is the worst, as you yourself look 
at it. I mean you, the woman of quick wit, 
sensitive, of liberal education, of student tastes 
and habits. Your worst misfortune is to find 
yourself at middle age in a false social position. 
Being there, you are without the companions — 
friends so called — who belong to your kind of 
character. An artist naturally has artist— or 
116 



A LITERARY WOMAN'S WORST MISFORTUNE. 117 

artistic — friends, not exclusively, but chiefly. So 
it is throughout all ranks of genius, ability, pro- 
fession, commerce, and the like. 

You, then, the woman of literary qualities with- 
out the production that usually follows, are in a 
false position. Your printed works — whatever 
their intrinsic value — known to the world, would 
have brought to you certain acknowledgment. 
Whether praise or censure or even cold indiflfer- 
ence, your social position, at least, would have been 
fixed. Being there, you doubtless could gradually 
have formed a circle of friends. The stronger, the 
more fearless your writings, the better established 
your position. Your friends at home, your corre- 
spondents abroad, your acquaintances everywhere, 
would all be on a social plane. Knowing your 
writings, people would know your character, be 
repelled or attracted in accordance. In brief, 
^' like attracts like." To have near you the 
friends you admire and love — people of both sexes 
with whom you are en rapport — you must show 
yourself mentally as you really are. To paint pic- 
tures and hide them away in a closet would never 
bring to an artist his two great needs, — self-develop- 
ment and companionship. 

You, would-be literary woman, who are so 
situated as to be forced to talk, to occupy a place 



118 A LITERARY WOMAN'S WORST MISFORTUNE. 

in society, to visit, to travel, to stay at home, 
to correspond, — to do all these things contrary to 
your natural self, — are enduring a woman's worst 
misfortune. Whether your own fault now or the 
fault originally of circumstances, matters little. 
To trace misfortunes to a primal source is some- 
times useful. The object here is simply to state a 
fact in woman's social life. Eeasons for your false 
position could of course be given, such as lack of 
confidence in your native ability, in your training, 
in your power to reach the heart of your contem- 
poraries. But a truce to reasons. They belong to 
another day, to another chapter. 



WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WEITE. 



A MIND of great sensitiveness often fancies that 
writing out-doors would be exceedingly easy. But 
upon trial it generally fails. Sky, atmosphere, birds, 
trees, rocks, water, everything in external nature 
affects such a mind like human faces and voices, 
utterly preventing connected thought. The author 
dreams, meditates, feels, but is under too much ex- 
citement to write. For this last he must be in-doors, 
in a room furnished mainly with books, the only 
companionship that does not interfere with indi- 
vidual thinking. N'ature maybe dearly loved, — we 
may revel in the warm sunlight, the cool breeze, 
the unfathomable firmament, the mysteries of vege- 
tation, the ten thousand charms which each day and 
hour unfold themselves to the appreciative mind, — 
and yet love one other thing better. This thing is 
the luxury called thinking. 

Too much thought interferes with execution. 

There are many to-day who would write more 

readily if their minds were less wealthy. The 

laws which govern the intellect are as unerring as 

119 



120 WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 

those which govern the physical world. In the first 
place, intellect must be allowed unrestrained exer- 
cise for its varied powers. Coercion, uncongenial 
employment, or overtaxing must be conscientiously 
avoided. Thought suggests thought. Hence the 
incalculable value of communion with other minds, 
although both reading and conversation must be 
prized more for what they inspire than for their 
direct information. 

Thinking upon one topic frequently elucidates 
another, and in all difficult questions there should 
be great care not to worry or drudge. If a result 
cannot be seen clearly, it must be set aside until the 
mind has had an interval of rest. Enlightenment 
often comes when least expected and under most 
peculiar circumstances. By closely observing such 
phenomena we learn the uselessness of forcing a 
comprehension, be the subject what it may. 

Intellect, with its innumerable subtleties and am- 
plifications, must be taken as it is, and its weakness 
no less than its strength skilfully handled. Mental 
labor under healthful conditions is a source of calm 
delight. When this is not the case, we may know 
there has been imprudence, fatigue, or hurtful in- 
dulgence. Much has been said about the discipline 
of the intellect. It has its value, undoubtedly, but 
it is often over-estimated. What does genius know 



WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 121 

about discipline ? Is not the instinct of intellect, 
like that of conscience, worth a thousand times 
more than any teaching of school or of philosopher ? 
Nature is the sole teacher who is wholly reliable. 
Her ways are seldom the ways of men. Her direc- 
tions are : first, to comprehend ; second, to develop ; 
third, to use ; and fourth, to consecrate. 

Each master in art, literature, or science origi- 
nates his own method, one different from but better 
suited to him than any other before heard of. The 
various modes of working in the intellectual world 
are most curious and instructive. Even among 
minds of the highest order, no two follow the same 
plan in the search for results. We should write 
when moved to it, and at no other time. What 
matters it if the work be crude, unfinished, un- 
polished ? Is there anything in art which can be 
pronounced finished ? 

Why, then, all this lament about want of method, 
application, concentration? The mind — i.e., the 
soul — must work out its own salvation. If with 
joy and hopefulness, it is well. If with fear and 
trembling, we dare not murmur. One who writes 
from inspiration cannot know what is to be his sub- 
ject for the day. Is not the highest kind of writing 
that which will do most for the author and most 
for the reader ? As the past has been, so will the 

9 



122 WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 

future be. E'atural laws reassert themselves con- 
tinually. 

Looking around us to-day, do we not take in at a 
glance all the works that will live beyond their age ? 
If a book is to live it must represent not one man's 
thoughts, but all men's thoughts. It must depict 
not one age, but all ages. It must indicate not one 
narrow line of conduct, but one broad enough for all 
mankind to tread. It matters not which vehicle of 
thought be chosen, whether essay, history, romance, 
or poetry. The indispensable condition is that it 
define principles applicable to man everywhere, 
throughout all time. 

The subject and the mode of expression once 
chosen, change of scene, of habits, and of surround- 
ings should be studiously avoided, l^othing is more 
injurious to the intellect than being forced to take 
in new impressions, see strange sights, or partake 
of social amusements. The more secluded the life 
of a writer, the more reliable his reflections. But 
prior to this seclusion there must have been actual 
'experiences of life, a living in the world and min- 
gling with all varieties of characters. 

He who would write thoughts which are to reach 
the souls of his fellow-creatures must live as it were 
a hundred lives. He must see much, feel strongly, 
suffer acutely. He must realize in his own life the 



WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 123 

extremes of joy and sorrow. He must evince the 
power of fathoming the profoundest mysteries of 
the soul. 

In describing what he discovers, there must be 
no mechanical effort, no labored eifect. All that 
comes within the range of sensibility, passion, or 
ideality must be felt and understood before it can 
be adequately represented in print. IS'othing can 
be described at will. All must be first known and 
felt. 

One who devotes himself to writing as to an art 
should never write a line unless inspired. When 
ITature urges us to a certain course she means some- 
thing which we shall do well to heed. Inspiration 
must be gladly welcomed at whatever hour she may 
be pleased to present herself, and treated with the 
utmost gentleness and delicacy. If any odd hour 
could be used for the doing of the mind's behests, 
such easy conquests would lose their value. Can 
the musician compose by rule ? labor to express a 
melody, break off, and renew it again at will ? Im- 
possible ! He must, on the contrary, woo his muse 
with most patient assiduity and count self-sacrifice 
as joy, ere he can hope to win her gracious smiles. 
To be limited in time, to know that at a certain 
hour interruption will come, is enough to mar the 
conceptions of a sensitive mind. Irritated, vexed, 



124 WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 

despairing, it feels that without more independence 
of character, more firmness to will and to do, its 
object will never be attained. 

A mind in a healthful condition never dreams of 
asking, How much ability? How much can be 
done ? Of what value ? It regards authorship as 
simply the expression of ideas, principles, and fan- 
cies which have been given by an unseen Giver. 
It is not responsible for the abilities given, but only 
for the use of them. 

The new author has one great difficulty to con- 
tend with. Whatever he writes with a view to 
possible publication becomes formal, stiff, prosy, 
different, so it seems to him, from what he writes 
for his own eye. He feels a restraint similar to 
that experienced by a sensitive man when in gen- 
eral company. Thoroughly at ease when alone or 
tete-a-tete with a friend, when in a crowd he is at 
once conscious of restraint and discomfort. The 
very differences of mind and character which he 
instinctively perceives check his natural flow of 
spirits. To a young author of sensitive mould the 
public is a miscellaneous crowd which he shrinks 
from mingling with. 

Reproduction is one of the dangers into which a 
young author is popularly supposed to be likely to 



WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 125 

fall. He reads much, he is easily impressed. How 
easy, then, exclaim his critics, to reproduce ! Must 
it not be difficult to detach his own thoughts from 
those of the masters he studies ? Upon this point 
the author himself, if honest, must be the best 
judge. When such a one speaks, it may be thus : 
" Listen, dear critics, and believe me, if you can. If 
you cannot, so much the worse, — not for me, but 
for you. Eeproduction is a matter about which I 
give myself no concern whatsoever." 

" So much the more danger," says the critic. 

" Perhaps so ; nevertheless, it is extremely pleas- 
ant to be able to tell you that upon one point at 
least my mind is wholly free from doubt and ap- 
prehension. To any one else it might sound like 
self-assurance, conceit, inflation, or what not. But 
to you my thoughts flow out as to one before whom 
there need be no more reserve than with myself. 
I want your candid opinion of my work ; and how 
can you give me this unless you know me as I am ? 
So sure am I that my thoughts, sentiments, and 
observations are my own, belonging to me by right 
of nature, that the bare suggestion of obtaining 
them from any other source calls up a smile of — 
for me — unusual self-complacency. Would that I 
were as sure of all else as of this fiict ! Whence 
this intense, ever-present desire to meditate, if there 



126 WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 

is no power within to conceive and produce? 
Whence these ardent feelings, these earnest long- 
ings, these profound regrets, if they do not origi- 
nate within ? 

" 'No, dear critic ; whatever resemblance my 
thought may bear to that of another arises solely 
from the affinity of mind and soul. I am not 
tempted to steal, because already in possession of 
more than I can well dispose of Once, I admit, 
the fear of reproduction did exist in my mind, 
for I could not avoid being struck with certain re- 
semblances of thought and style. But after care- 
fully sounding mind and conscience, analyzing all 
that entered my mental laboratory, I unhesitatingly 
enunciated the words, Il^ot guilty." 

Upon the whole, this question of reproduction is 
deeply interesting from a psychological point. How 
far other minds act upon our own must always be 
a matter of serious consideration. Nature unques- 
tionably means that there shall be resemblances in 
all her children. But in mental no less than in 
physical attributes the variety in resemblances may 
be infinite. In studying the records of other minds 
we are continually coming upon thoughts that 
startle us with their affinity to our own. Strange, 
we murmur, I thought the same long ago. Yet 



WHERE, WHEN, AND HOW TO WRITE. 127 

I never saw this man nor heard his sentiments 
before. How does it happen that I find here my 
own secret thought and cherished feeling expressed 
by another ? 

This meeting with congenial thoughts is the first 
incentive to the habit of making quotations. Certain 
ideas or sentiments make an impression. Without 
stopping to ask why, we are seized with a desire to 
transcribe and keep them near us. Page after page 
of a book may be read with interest possibly, but 
without any marked effect. Suddenly, without 
apparent cause, we come upon a sentence which 
attracts, rivets, electrifies. In this fact lies the 
proof that the great advantage of reading is less 
in what it actually gives us than in what it enables 
us to do for ourselves. 

In a book, picked up carelessly, it may be, we 
read on until attention is fixed by a force beyond 
our control upon a certain passage. Instantly 
arises a desire to think and write upon the subject 
suggested. In all this the will has no influence; 
the desire, although excited by a fact or thought, 
in reality arises from the character of the writer 
himself. As his organization is, so he observes, 
thinks, and feels ; but the ability to derive nutriment 
from the thoughts of others without infringing 
upon their domain depends upon moral force. 



THE BEST WEITING. 



The scholar desires to have his researches stamped 
in the purest language of his country and age. 
"Whoever helps to form the national taste in litera- 
ture merits the gratitude of the world of letters. 
Naturally, then, we look to authors as the best prac- 
tical instructors in the art of writing. And among 
them we give allegiance to those who by their 
printed works prove their knowledge and skill. 

The critic gives his opinions upon manner and 
matter, calls our attention to beauties or deformities, 
pronounces judgment as to conception and execu- 
tion, leads the indolent, unthinking crowd about 
him into his own special area of vision ; and where 
scholarship and nobility of character are the basis 
of criticism, we owe a debt of gratitude for such 
assistance. Yet, for the unbiassed, independent 
opinion each student wishes to acquire for his own 
mental portion, there must be a direct application 
to books themselves. 

How far character is revealed in an author's 
writings cannot be positively decided. Possibly 
128 



THE BEST WRITING. 129 

the simplest solution is to say, The written page 
tells us of the spirit or real part of the author, 
while it in no way enlightens us as to his mode of 
life. Koble sentiments may be on the page, while 
the actual life is in some particulars ignoble. Or 
the page may contain much coarseness and indeli- 
cacy, while the author lives an excellent life. 

Writing is to the mind what manner is to the 
person. It may give the impression of something 
either far nobler or far meaner than really exists. 
Some writers would have far more influence if their 
mode of life were not known. We find it hard to 
give our teachers the reverence their writings claim 
when the actual life is found to be sadly out of har- 
mony with the principles inculcated. 

Publishing a book by no means implies confessing 
to the public. The public, composed as it largely 
is of unthinking people, must be regarded by the 
author in the light of a miscellaneous audience. 
Many minds of a high grade are doubtless there 
assembled, ready to listen and criticise. These, 
however, are in the minority. The majority con- 
sists of minds less mature than his own, who 
would, consequently, be startled and discomposed if 
they heard many of his theories or deductions. An 
author, then, would instinctively withhold many of 



130 ^^^ 5^5fr WRITING. 

his thoughts, not because they are hurtful to man- 
kind, but because many immature minds would fail 
to comprehend them. 

All men are different. Intellectually, morally, 
we cannot find even two who have had precisely 
the same advantages of endowment or culture. 
Such differences are inevitable. And so are the im- 
passable differences between intellects and hearts 
inevitable. 'Eo student would think of discussing 
religion with his coachman ; no woman in society 
would touch upon the subject of social ethics w^ith 
her cook ; although in both cases there might be 
a thorough appreciation of their special services. 
Many people who are on a social equality with the 
author might be utterly unable to enter into his 
thoughts and feelings. The majority, in every com- 
munity, comprehend only what they have been in 
the habit of thinking about. 

To be abashed in the presence of others is to 
acknowledge ourselves more ignorant, more foolish, 
or more wicked than they. Who standing among 
his peers feels any doubts of his own ability, any 
apprehensions as to the effect his personality pro- 
duces ? Come what will of it, a writer should put 
himself into his works. Only thus can he bequeath 
to the world the powers given to him in trust at 
birth. During many years of life we live as do 



THE BEST WRITING. 131 

other animals, without knowing why or wherefore. 
But if we pass this stage and enter " upon a life 
characterized by reason, we dare not falsify the 
testimony which reflection and observation call 
forth. What the individual sees, feels, and knows 
must in some shape be handed over to other indi- 
viduals. 

Every earnest soul might speak thus : My experi- 
ence has been different from that of some others. 
So also are my natural qualifications, and these are 
facts over which I have had neither choice nor con- 
trol. Thus far there is no responsibility. But in 
the next aspect of this subject emerges the feature 
which decides action. I, the individual, because of 
the very difference in faculties and circumstances, 
am required to add my quota to the fund called 
humanity. It may not greatly help, but this is not 
my affair. A finite being is not expected to see 
infinity. If my life is to be of any value to other 
lives, it must be lived without the slightest calcu- 
lation. I must follow my impulses because they 
are mine, not because they are believed to lead to 
a given end. Fearless, outspoken thoughts, then, 
are the only ones worthy a place in literature. 
Noble, pure lives are the only ones worthy of re- 
membrance in the hearts of our fellow-creatures. 



OEIGINALITY m BEADING.* 



In taking up a book to read, how often we are, 
as with people, far too good-natured for our own 
comfort ! If any one doubt this assertion, memory 
will straightway give a list of all those persons who 
have bored him during past years, but whom he 
listened or talked to because he thought they ex- 
pected it and would be hurt if they did not receive 
such attention. So with certain books, which from 
the first half-dozen pages weary or irritate us. In- 
stead of closing them at once, we have plodded on, 
chapter after chapter, partly from curiosity, but 
more from courtesy towards the author, — the feel- 
ing which shrinks from judging before all the facts 
are fairly known. Thus we often spend hours over 
books that give us nothing but fatigue. 

What makes us read these prosy books ? Other 
people, the voices coming through newspapers, 
magazines, and similar unreliable sources. Should 
this curiosity awakened about a book by some 
chance word be studiously repressed ? Is it un- 

* Written in 1869. 
132 



ORIGINALITY IN READING. I33 

pardonable folly to neglect what we know is real 
mental nourishment for very doubtful amusement ? 
For of all friends the mental ones have most power 
over us ; they are, too, upon the whole, our safest, 
most reliable guides. It matters not how or where 
we meet them. We neither observe their dress 
nor care for their circumstances. We are not afraid 
of offending them, we can call upon them at any 
hour or in any mood. 

1^0 pleasure is so entirely satisfying as the gain- 
ing of new ideas. Sometimes, in the most unex- 
pected places, we come upon facts which every one 
ought to know, but which, hitherto, have escaped 
our observation. This, then, is the great advantage 
of liberal reading, of knowing many authors, many 
languages : in each we may find something we 
have sought in vain elsewhere. In this we find 
the answer to the question. Is it unpardonable to 
neglect what we know is good for what may prove 
to be doubtful amusement ? To be a thorough 
reader, no lifetime suffices ; but even partial ac- 
quaintance with books is a thousand times better 
than none. 

Especially should it be enjoined upon young 
women to read more generously, to devote more 
attention to substantial nourishment, history, biog- 
raphy, philosophy, science. With none of these 



134 ORIGINALITY IN READING. 

problems, of course, can they become thoroughly 
acquainted, but their energies will be enlarged and 
strengthened; they will become better fitted, in 
all respects, to cope with the daily duties of home 
and society. New ideas are absolutely essential to 
a healthy development of character. The mind 
cannot stand still ; if not nourished with a judicious 
means of exercise, it will seize an injudicious one. 
Our young women have not too much but too 
little knowledge for the ordinary purposes of life. 
No amount of prosperity can indemnify for a bar- 
ren intellect. Women, especially, stand in need of 
this precious elixir called culture, confined, as they 
often are, to an unvaried routine of home duties. 

What should one read, is an often-asked ques- 
tion. In my own case, nothing, I believe, has so 
helped my mental development as the reading of 
biography. It is like having a circle of wise and 
loving friends ready at all times to come forward 
with help, instruction, and encouragement. I have 
never yet read any life of man or woman that I did 
not derive positive benefit therefrom, feel myself 
enlightened, cheered, strengthened. In the main 
characteristics men are more alike than they think : 
hence the value of penetrating other minds and 
discovering the springs of action, capacity of 



ORIGINALITY IN READING. 135 

thought, moral calibre. From what horrid fears 
have I not been relieved by the words of com- 
fort spoken by these dear friends; from what 
complications guarded, from what dangers pre- 
served ! 

From biography to history the transition is easy. 
In looking at the past, whether it be one or five 
hundred years ago, the first difficulty which pre- 
sents itself is the immensity of the prospect. Lost 
in wonder, the eye and mind wander over space, for 
a time incompetent to make any special observa- 
tions. By degrees, however, the whole scene be- 
comes more familiar ; the gazer, according to his 
state of mind, finds his attention attracted to cer- 
tain points. The whole history of even one human 
life can never be written. The longest term of 
years, the fullest amount of industry, would not 
suffice for the work. For thought is the occupa- 
tion which — acknowledge it or not — fills up the 
greatest part of that life. And who shall be found 
gifted enough to describe that process? If, then, 
the complete history of one human being cannot 
be written, what shall be said of communities com- 
posed of myriads of these same beings ? 

"Were all the thinkers of an age to apply them- 
selves to writing its history, but a small portion of 



136 ORIGINALITY IN READING. 

it would see the light. However many volumes 
the historian fills, they are, nevertheless, his own 
version, — the facts, incidents, follies, reforms, as he 
apprehended them. From a number of versions, 
however, we learn various facts, hear varied expla- 
nations, surmises, theories. These taken into our 
own minds — not absorbed merely to be repro- 
duced, but subjected to an honest process of reflec- 
tion — gradually result in what we call opinions 
and principles. To read history thus is to learn 
from the mistakes, absurdities, and shortcomings 
of past ages the lessons that may help to elucidate 
the difficulties of our own day. 

Each age manifests its individual progress. Its 
strong and true souls, its workers, search out and 
use all they are capable of managing. The de- 
scendants of these true souls, whether blood-related 
or humanly related, profit by the toils and sacrifices 
of their predecessors. In every age man shows 
a great aptness in adapting himself to change in 
learning to look upon miracles as things of course. 
Surrounded by the most striking evidences of man's 
inventive skill, we have daily proof of the num- 
bers of mysteries yet unexplored. The scientific 
truths once penetrated by only a handful of supe- 
rior minds are to-day familiarly discussed by every 
one. 



ORIGINALITY IN READING. I37 

As Hume well says, The good or ill accidents 
of life are very little at our disposal ; but we are 
pretty much masters of what books we shall read, 
what diversions we shall partake of, and what com- 
pany we shall keep. 

Whatever you read, rely upon your personal 
instinct, follow nature in your choice of books as 
closely as in choosing your friends. Look over a 
catalogue, in or out of a library, and select. You 
will need no one to tell you which subject interests 
you, — history, fiction, science, music, religion, 
drama. No matter which one it is, follow im- 
plicitly the mind's direction. Following this course 
for a given number of years, you will have no diffi- 
culty in deciding of what your mind is capable. 
Originality in reading precedes originality in think- 
ing. In your own choice of books, then, there can 
be no doubt, no hesitation. As to advising other 
people, consult not your own taste at all, but that 
of those who ask your advice. Above all things 
do not recommend authors, but individual books. 
All authors worth the name have different moods, 
which may be read between the lines in their books. 



10 



PLEASUEE IN BOOKS* 



To come into the study, to glance at the shelves 
laden with their precious freight, naturally gives 
rise to the thought. What should we do without 
them ? How unspeakably dull and lonely we 
should feel if lacking these companions ! How 
they nourish, sustain, and delight ! Can, in fact, 
any living companionship compare with the last- 
ing pleasure books aiFord ? From fellowship with 
other mortals one may gain much strength and 
happiness. But in the close, intimate, uninter- 
rupted communion which books give we cannot 
help feeling ourselves wonderfully soothed and en- 
lightened. All we desire to know — and how in- 
satiable is the desire in a born reader ! — of heart, 
intellect, experience, we find expressed clearly and 
definitely. Then, too, the never-to-be ignored ad- 
vantage of books is that we can have our mental 
food when hungry. At times the mere thought of 
discussing philosophy, theology, or psychology is 



* Written in 1869. 
138 



PLEASURE IN BOOKS. 139 

utterly distasteful. Conversation, even with the 
wisest and best of mankind, is only weariness at 
such times. We are not in the mood for contact 
with the world. Bat with books how different! 
Here is no compulsion, no effort of will or of con- 
science, no sense of courtesy or of obligation, but 
a spontaneous giving up one's self to enjoyment at 
the most favorable hour and opportunity. Without 
fear of interrupting or molesting, we go to our 
chosen friend and commune leisurely, delightfully. 
Is there not less drawback here than in any other 
form of earthly happiness ? 

With Ruskin, for instance, one volume was suf- 
ficient to show me the calibre of mind and heart, 
to convince me that here was a friend in whom 
I could trust. Some readers would have gone 
steadily through one volume after another. N'ot 
so with me. I felt strongly attracted, knew he was 
my friend, felt sure I could call upon him at any 
moment and get the needed strength, advice, and 
inspiration. Yet I left him for the time being 
to pay attention to others in whom a temporary 
interest had been awakened, perhaps by some of 
Euskin's own words. Is not this often the case ? 
But, however many others we may become ac- 
quainted with through such wanderings, the au- 
thor who has led us into these mental by-paths 



140 PLEASURE IN BOOKS, 

must always remain what he was at the first. It is 
not true, as some one has stated, that certain authors 
are at one time everything to us, but afterwards 
they can do nothing more, — that for us their 
work is finished. No ; like friends, their mission 
is endless. Upon finding that heart and mind 
assimilate, we yield to the influence and think 
of the author ever afterwards as a most valued 
companion. 

Books, then, give us the best of life's benefits. 
Here, and only here, can there be close intimacy 
with the noblest intellects. However poor our 
station, however mean our trade, we can still in 
leisure hours associate with the aristocrats of 
thought. There are born thinkers, just as there 
are born musicians and artists. Yet in early stages 
there are weary hours of doubt, painful ones of 
struggle. At this juncture the experience of pre- 
vious thinkers comes to the rescue. Whoever 
devotes his life to thinking must of necessity ac- 
quire special skill. Choosing a master, then, in the 
subject that most interests us, let us look for one 
who has the greatest natural aptitude combined with 
the widest experience. Let us take what we read 
into our own brain laboratory, study with due 
earnestness, and then — reject or utilize according 
to conviction. 



PLEASURE IN BOOKS. 141 

To return to the pleasure found in books. It is 
twofold, for not only is the present hour gratified, 
but the future is provided for by enlightenment. 
What a meagre, wretched, wearisome thing exist- 
ence must be for one who has never known com- 
munion with other minds ! ]^o wonder is it that 
people grow weary of the routine of physical life, 
and sufiTer under the pressure of petty, daily-recur- 
ring cares and annoyances. If happiness be deemed 
essential for every child that comes into the world, 
let parents and friends look to it that the mind be 
well cared for, — not forced, crammed, or misdi- 
rected, but dealt with fairly, honestly, and tenderly. 

How a book of bold exploration, of indomitable 
labor, invigorates one ! Its effect upon the mental 
organization is that of the cold plunge-bath upon 
the physical : it creates a healthy nervous current. 
We realize of what difficult things we, though 
human, are capable. It matters little how many 
books are written upon the same subject. Readers 
are as numerous as writers, and various are the 
ways by which the ear and heart are gained. People 
cannot feel interest in the same things at the same 
time. Certain books are read and talked about, 
but, to our own surprise, we feel no desire to see 
them. This is not necessarily indifference to the 
subject. Cares are, perhaps, weighing upon us, 



142 PLEASURE IN BOOKS. 

certain thoughts fill our minds to the exclusion of 
all else, duties demand our time and energy. So 
the book now passed by unnoticed is later read 
with eagerness; the subject now uncared for be- 
comes after a while the absorbing thought. 

How little idea some people have of the true 
pleasure, the real value, in books ! Otherwise could 
they ask. Why do you have so many books ? have 
you read through these many volumes in your 
library? Surely you could not finish them in a 
lifetime ! Why purchase more before reading 
these? Such people do not in the least compre- 
hend the often made statement, that books are like 
friends. We want them with us, around us, even 
though we cannot know all in their hearts and 
minds. As well say, Content yourself with one 
friend until you have searched him through and 
through ; it is folly to know so many men partially ! 
Books are society; the}^ take the place of real, lov- 
ing, feeling, companionable people, a few of whom 
it may be our good fortune to know intimately, 
but with whom, for the most part, we can only be 
on friendly terms, and know their style, manner, 
tone. If a book has suggested only one idea, has 
it not performed a mission to us ? But books, 
even the purest and most ennobling, cannot bring 
comfort, peace, pleasure, or entertainment when 



PLEASURE IN BOOKS. 143 

the soul is out of tune. At such periods they 
will all be left untouched, unopened, or at least 
they will not be enjoyed. When the soul is dis- 
turbed or is at war with itself, whatever be the 
cause, it is a mockery to seek peace from without, 
from other minds. With books, as with the other 
delights and joys of life, time and place are 
everything. 

Shall we find our pleasure in the old books, or in 
the new ? In both, I answer. A new book is as a 
guest just arrived from a foreign land. We give 
it the warmest, most courteous welcome of which 
we are capable. If we have heard its name pre- 
viously, our interest is doubled. We feel as if it 
had brought us a letter of introduction. To a 
genuine lover of books a new book has a peculiar 
fascination. It is a revelation from another mind, 
and this is in no degree lessened if the author is 
known to us, either personally or by reputation. 
We may have known him in society, in the busy 
working world, or on the street. But in this par- 
ticular phase we have never yet known him. Our 
interest, then, is aroused to see in what manner he 
conducts himself, whether he will be more or less 
interesting, wise, or agreeable than we expected. 
What genuine pleasure in carrying a new book 



144 PLEASURE IN BOOKS. 

home, as a thing of which we know not yet the 
value, but amuse ourselves by imagining the 
contents ! 

But do not, my reader, if you would have pleas- 
ure in books, be guilty of that abominable habit 
of marking them. What if you do admire cer- 
tain passages, appreciate certain thoughts and sen- 
timents. Can you not enjoy them and profit by 
them without disfiguring the book by pencil-marks ? 
Is your appreciation of the author enhanced by 
soiling the pages? Even if you find a personal 
gratification in so doing, cannot the reflection that 
there are others into whose hands the book may 
come after you restrain you from such inconsider- 
ate conduct ? ^Nothing is more irritating to a true 
lover of books than to read one that has been thus 
treated. There is a perpetual desire to quarrel 
with the previous reader, — a feeling aggravated by 
every fresh mark as the pages are turned. 



PEOPLE OF THE BRAIN. 



People of the brain are the only ones who are 
entirely satisfying. Let me explain. The people 
we love are the men and women we think about, 
desire for friends, wives, husbands, companions; 
men and women on our own intellectual level, — 
more than that, far more important even, — our 
peers in the subtler qualities of character called 
refinement, culture, good breeding. 

But, says the w^orld, these are people of the 
brain. Look long and far, spend your life in the 
search, you will never find men and women who 
come up to your ideal. The world is half right, 
half wrong. People of the brain do exist, are, 
perchance, close to us, can be had for the seeking. 
If not found, — as is, alas ! too often the case, — it is 
absolutely our own fault, — fault including igno- 
rance, indolence, aimless drifting. 

People of the brain mean simply the men and 
women who are companionable, w^ho meet us on the 
best ground of our own individuality, on the ground 
of thought, of sentiment, of training. You want 

145 



146 PEOPLE OF THE BRAIN. 

too much, says the world; you must take people as 
they are, not as you wish to have them. Very good 
advice for attaining popularity, if that be your chief 
object; not good, if you want companionship, that 
highest kind of happiness. 

Take friendship as a condition open to all, irre- 
spective of birth, age, fortune, of those external 
points of such tyrannic influence in the question of 
marriage. Can we aim too high in choosing our 
friends? Decidedly not. Indeed, it maybe said, 
in all soberness, that our friends, so called, fail to 
satisfy us because we have allowed ourselves to be 
chosen instead of choosing, as we had the right to 
do and ought to have done. 

Look at your list of friends in the past and con- 
fess how few were chosen by your own individual 
tastes, how many were thrust upon you through 
circumstances, — that is, your own weakness of will. 
Kindness, sympathy, helpfulness, tenderness, — all 
these may be liberally given, when needed by peo- 
ple within our reach. But the sacred gift of friend- 
ship ought never to be given until the noblest part 
of the inner self is satisfied that it has met an equal. 
This by no means asks for perfection. On the con- 
trary, who among the imaginative class, people 
avowedly hard to please, fastidious, is not painfully 
conscious of his own personal defects and deficien- 



PEOPLE OF THE BRAIN. I47 

cies? Ko; such a one, in seeking a companion, 
asks, not for perfection, but for a striving after it, a 
striving after something better than now is, whether 
in education, in manner, or in mode of life. 

People of the brain exist only in books; you 
never meet them in real life; hence you have no 
friends, lead too lonely a life : — so speaks the world. 
But again it is only half right. "What if you are 
lonely ? Life is not a pleasure-trip. If you take it 
as such, middle age will find you in an unhappy 
condition of satiety, disgust, and self-reproach. 
Moreover, if you are without friends because of an 
imaginative temperament that produces fastidious- 
ness, you have an infallible cure at hand. 

If imaginative, you must have the artist-nature. 
Even if not a producer, you have the love of art 
which makes the amateur or the critic; and, 
w^hether the one or the other, you cannot suffer 
from solitude. The man of imaginative tempera- 
ment, whether artist or art-lover, knows well that 
his ideal never can be embodied. Yet this knowing 
does not prevent his being content in the society of 
men and women of like temperament. Is it not 
proverbial that we see no defects in those we love ? 
This, however, implies a blindness which never 
outlives passion. 

Better to take it thus : the defects of those we 



148 PEOPLE OF THE BRAIN. 

love do not annoy us because the foundation of 
mutual love is similarity of temperament. Artists, 
musicians, actors, for instance, have worldly inter- 
course with various kinds of people, while really 
feeling entirely at ease only with their fellow-artists. 
Art of the highest kind is destined for solitude. 
Men and women of artistic nature, then, do but 
share the lot of their tribe. Their search for the 
something corresponding to or, at least, approach- 
ing the image in their own mind leads them into 
out-of-the-way corners, where they meet none save 
explorers like themselves. 

Imaginative people are as necessary to society as 
the practical kind, the so-called workers. In litera- 
ture imagination is the source not only of poetry 
but of the higher kinds of prose, as romance, the 
drama, philosophy, and psychology. It produces 
eloquence through the law of affinity. The lawyer 
defending a murderer is temporarily in full sym- 
pathy with his client. Imagination sets vividly be- 
fore his mind the temperament, the temptation, the 
opportunity, which led to the crime. It is not 
that the lawyer is defending the latter, but that he 
compels his mind to look on one side exclusively. 
The keener his imagination, the more convincing 
his argument, the more glowing and irresistible his 
oratory. 



PEOPLE OF THE BRAIN. 149 

Imaginative people are predestined to pensiveness, 
melancholy, discontent, — words but partially expres- 
sive of the states of mind they represent. The hap- 
piest among them, perhaps the only happy ones of 
their class, are those devoted to art. Here and here 
alone may be found the opportunity and the per- 
mission to express the demon of ideality, so per- 
sistently goading the mind to discontent. In prac- 
tical life imagination is a huge stumbling-block 
against which mind, sentiment, and tastes are con- 
tinually wounding themselves. 



DULL PEOPLE'S WIT. 



It has occurred to me that it might be a comfort 
to many good dull people to know, first, that they 
have wit, and next where it lies. It would have 
been so to me years and years ago, when I thought 
myself helplessly dull and never dreamed of even 
a slight compensation. I knew how unattractive 
dull people were, how their mere presence cast a 
shadow over some others, — I knew this, and some- 
times imagined myself one of them. It was very 
hard, was even a deep chagrin. But nobody ever 
told me that dull people had wit, if you only knew 
how to find it. Where? Below the surface, so 
very far below that it never is seen at all by the so- 
called bright, superficial people. Mental talking — 
dull people's wit — shows itself there. You, for in- 
stance, confess to yourself and perhaps to one other 
self that you belong to the dull set. Yet how often 
in solitary hours you have suddenly caught yourself 
in mental talking, not brilliantly compared to some 
other people, but brilliantly for you ! You think of 
some one you admire, imagine yourself meeting 

him, and lo, you are not dull. Your tongue finds 
150 



DULL PEOPLE'S WIT. 151 

plenty to say and just the right thing for the mo- 
ment. What a pity, you muse, that my mental 
talking should be so much better than my other 
kind ! And that other kind is the only one cur- 
rent in society ! Dull people are not wanted there. 
They act as marplots, actually spoiling the natural 
flow of fun and frolic. 

iN'o, you do not belong in society, — you belong to 
solitude. There and there only do you find your 
wit, whatever its grade. There only does your 
mental talking take place. There only do you 
meet people to whom you can talk easily, fluently, 
frankly. There you have not the least shyness, no 
discomfort of any kind. There you meet people 
on a plane. The position is one of equality, there- 
fore of ease, of warmth, of masonic freedom. 
Mental talking means mental companionship. 
Probably you will never know the latter out of 
solitude. Possibly, too, you may know it in real 
life, — this last only upon one immutable condition : 
self-development put into form. 

Study, yes, hard, faithfully, year in, year out, 
incessantly. Study books, study people, study na- 
ture, study self,— this last the most diflicult subject 
of all. But study is only the first step. The second 
one is production. Exhibit your picture, print 
your book, utilize your invention. Study is but 



152 DULL PEOPLE'S WIT. 

the consuming of other students' knowledge : their 
deductions, their discoveries, their earnestness, are 
the fuel for your own mental fire. But to be only 
a consumer is to be but a sorry student, — one alto- 
gether useless both in his generation and after- 
wards. The result of true study is to make a pro- 
ducer. After the acquisition of mental means 
comes the disbursement to others less advanced 
than yourself. The same exactly applies to ma- 
terial wealth. He who acquires a fortune imme- 
diately seeks the best ways of spending it. 

Take heart, then, dear dull people, who never 
succeed in society, fashionable or other. That 
your wit is not current enough for daily use, at 
table or in drawing-room, does not prove its absence 
from your mental estate. To see that you are one 
of the dull people is in itself a proof of wit. That 
it is not of the jovial, sparkling, rollicking sort 
does not mean that it is worthless. To enjoy other 
people's brilliancy shows a certain kind of wit in 
you. There is the wit of appreciation as well as 
the wit of providing. 



MENTAL ENDOWMENTS. 



Who among living Americans is the man of 
greatest intellect? asks the N^ew York Sun. First 
of all, what is intellect? Who is to be the judge? 
E'aturally, one and all among thinking men and 
women of their own country. That is, the subject 
of intellect can be reflected upon, criticised, judged, 
precisely as other subjects may be. Every man 
is at liberty to use such power of thought as he 
possesses to discuss any subject. This, of course, 
does not make his conclusions valuable to the 
world at large. Yet he himself may be satisfied 
that he sees enough for his own purpose. This, 
for the most part, is applicable to average persons 
of either sex. 

To those above the average, — that is, to men and 
women born w^ith a thinking mind and so situated 
throughout life as to be enabled to cultivate that 
native faculty, — to them come the most valuable con- 
clusions. Therefore, to know the best that can be 
known about human powers of thinking, you must 
go to those who have made it their life study. Yet 

even then you are not to be satisfied with the con- 

11 153 



]54 MENTAL ENDOWMENTS. 

elusions of one or even two individuals. You must 
listen to many, in various countries, under varied 
conditions, after countless experiments and experi- 
ences, before you place confidence in their men- 
tal opinions. This includes the whole subject of 
criticism. 

When are you yourself entitled to judge or to 
pass criticism on the subject of intellect, as to the 
minds of your contemporaries being small or great ? 
When, in short, may you justly consider yourself 
independent of other people's opinions ? For this 
there is no age, no period, no possible limit. Self- 
asserting people of either sex begin when yet chil- 
dren to pronounce judgment on everything they see 
or hear. Timid people are up to old age as shy 
and shrinking in expressing their opinions, how- 
ever strong, as they are shy and shrinking in man- 
ner. Temperament never changes. It is a some- 
thing born in men, inseparable from their lives. 
After life-long struggle with it, the strongest char- 
acter can at best only modify or conceal it. 

A richly-dowered nature is like a large estate, — 
capable of producing much, yet if badly managed 
it becomes a source of endless worry and chagrin. 
Look at the life-models close at hand. Select one 
of the best mentally endowed persons of your 
acquaintance. Let it be a woman. Intellect is 



MENTAL ENDOWMENTS. 155 

sexless, — this is one, at least, of the non-disputed 
questions of the day. Men have better chances 
for developing their mental endowments, chiefly 
because they are exempt from the endless household 
duties that fall to the share of women. Then, again, 
young women — save those who are strong enough 
at the start to assert their mental force — -just when 
their minds are freshest and strongest are expected 
to be in and of the family. They have domestic 
life, dress, varied accomplishments, church, society 
claims, visiting in suburbs and country, etc. They 
are in most cases simply overpowered by attempt- 
ing too much. Their mental aspirations lead them 
to make too many attempts in as many difterent 
directions, including, it may be, history, philosophy, 
fiction, poetry, ethics, as well as domestic and social 
life. It is impossible to do any one thing well when 
the mind is running on many different lines at one 
time. 



AEISTOCEATS OF INTELLECT. 



These stand so high above their fellow-men that 
one may well hesitate before passing free comment. 
Yet so grateful am I for their existence — in the 
past, in the present — that it seems but simple jus- 
tice to make some slight acknowledgment. The 
realms of philosophy, fiction, poetry, history, sci- 
ence, shine with the glorious insignia of these aris- 
tocrats. The world does them reverence, gives 
them their full meed of homage, — if not during 
life, at least after death. They rule the world by 
hereditary right. They have a hold upon it which 
nothing can shake. Revolutions may occur, tem- 
porary governments follow, but these are merely 
interludes in history. The passions having abated, 
people are swift to recognize their own true inter- 
ests. However ignorant they themselves may be, 
they must, by a natural law, stronger than even 
passion or prejudice, bow to the power of in- 
tellect. 

The laws of a people may be imperfect, but they 
are, after all, far better to live under than lawless- 
156 



ARISTOCRATS OF INTELLECT. 157 

ness. Whatever of good is found in them comes 
from the highest intellects. For this good, sooner 
or later, people universally are grateful. This sen- 
timent produces loyalty to hereditary rights. 

Every nation, every form of civilization, produces 
its own kind of intellectual workers. Climate, 
custom, mode of life, all tend to the development 
of special doctrines, codes, opinions, conceptions. 
But in the main thinkers are all the world over 
alike. Delving into the mysteries of physical 
life or exploring the depths of soul, one and all 
are animated by the same desires, tormented by 
the same doubts, stirred by the same hopes. Cos- 
tume, language, habits, manners, all belong to a 
particular nation or age. But thoughts, motives, 
desires, sentiments, are universal, immutable. The}^ 
were the same eighteen hundred years ago as 
to-day; they are the same to-day as they will be 
eighteen hundred years hence. 

Aristocrats of intellect stand apart from their 
fellows. They enter the world with a greater sup- 
ply of brain-force ; they receive better care. The 
native force and the training combined make them 
stronger thinkers, stronger actors, than their fel- 
lows. They do with ease what the plebeians of 
intellect can do only after long mental drudgery. 
With equal steadiness of purpose the first will far 



158 ARISTOCRATS OF INTELLECT. 

outstrip the second. But if the plebeian excel in 
that steadiness, he may reach the topmost round of 
fame, while possibly his originally more favored 
contemporary may be found languishing on the 
way. 



GENIUS AND ITS LACK. 



I LIKE this short, simple definition of genius : 
" Genius is but the highest expression of nature. '^ * 
Genius is but another name for originality. One 
of the first proofs of its possession is the daring 
to admire, to like, to enjoy what you recognize 
as appropriate to yourself. There is but one 
standard of genius, and that is the self that 
throbs and speaks in you who write, who sing, 
who invent, who paint, who carve, or what not. 
Its first and last signs, its universal, perpetual, in- 
fallible proofs, are an intense egotism. Tell me 
of a person who shows that in some form, and I 
should look for and expect to find genius, — latent, 
struggling to bud, it may be, or already partially 
developed. After long and ardent study of the 
subject, I am fully convinced of the truth of the 
statement. Belief in self, to the extent of disbe- 
lief in everybody else, yields that mental strength 
essential to personal independence. And solely 



* Henry Giles, " Human Life in Shakspere." 

169 



160 GENIUS AND ITS LACK. 

through this personal freedom can any grade of 
genius be evolved. 

Genius is but one word out of many to express 
selfhood. You yourself must help yourself No 
one outside yourself can dictate what your work or 
your play shall be. Genius is but another word 
for mind, intellect, and the ego. Analyze one and 
all and you find the same substance, — power of 
thought. The gradations of thought mark the 
epochs of primitive man and the ripe scholar. A 
little intellect, a big intellect, a little soul, a big 
soul, a weak selfhood, a strong selfhood, are all 
terms purely relative. 

Infinite in number, multiform in degree, are the 
gifts of genius. The kind that evokes my highest 
admiration is the practical one that develops its 
natural strength in spite of every outward obstacle ; 
and of these obstacles the greatest, the most for- 
midable, are other people, — rivals, enemies, friends, 
blood-relations. 

I have been led to consider the definition of genius 
through being conscious of my own lack of the gift. 
Proof of that lack lies in an innate reverence for 
other people of high grade, regard for their mental, 
their practical, their scientific, their philanthropic, 
their every kind of noble work. My admiration 



GENIUS AND ITS LACK. 161 

for others prevents the self-development I dream 
of. Literature fascinates me, art attracts me, high- 
bred people charm me, — and all these interfere 
fatally with literary work. 

And you, be you man or woman, of like tem- 
perament, born with the tendency to admire and 
reverence other people, to believe instinctively that 
they are your superiors in most things, likewise 
have not the gift called genius. Accept the fact, 
accept it and make the best of, ay, profit by it. 
But not to possess genius means to possess some 
other quality. For instance, after long years of 
admiring and reverencing other people you come 
to see something in yourself worth developing. 

Here is a crucial test of that something being 
worth the trouble. Belief in yourself for what 
you are, — not a genius, no, but still a personality, 
if developed, of intrinsic worth. If developed, 
there is the point to fix your mind upon. As you 
are to-day, it may be, you feel yourself of no use, 
of no ornament, of no value to anybody, to any 
circle. As you may be, whether next year or a 
score of years hence, — that is the highest of all 
problems for you to solve; not what your coun- 
trymen or your contemporaries can do, but what 
you yourself can, after training, do, be, or carry 
out. This sort of personal responsibility in the 



162 GENIUS AND ITS LACK. 

question of living is of infinitely greater moment 
than genius. 

Genius may do at a bound whatever it under- 
takes under inspiration. Genius never asks per- 
mission. It ignores precedent, defies criticism, 
creates out of its own personality. How do you 
know this ? asks the practical man. I know it, 
answers genius, because it exists in myself There 
is no fact on this visible earth of which I am so 
certain as what this self tells me. 

Genius struggling with his work is scoffed at by 
the world. The work finished, that same world 
falls on its knees and worships both work and 
worker. Men or women with genius belong to the 
world, ^o one asks or cares where they happened 
to be born. The so-called selfishness of genius is 
simply the intensity of a rare selfhood. 

You who have no genius, but simply a strong 
reverence for things that betoken mental beauty 
and force, must learn the art of faithful, patient 
working. Out of that will grow the encouragement 
that leads to content and peace in your vocation. 
Once thoroughly committed to your special groove, 
you will never be fretted by the futile idea of wish- 
ing yourself more gifted. You will be happy be- 
cause of your self-development, of your doing as 
well as possible what nature intended you to do. 



GENIUS AND ITS LACK. 163 

Doing that, your life is a complete one. The great- 
est genius can do no more. 

Yet another view of genius strikes me. You 
who bemoan your incapacity, your littleness, — what 
have you done to test yourself as nature made you ? 
How much of the littleness you recognize in your- 
self is the result of idleness, of subservience, of 
worldly custom ? Born, say, to a condition of ease, 
surrounded by manifold temptations to mental 
drifting, how do you know your own actual calibre ? 
That you are nothing to-day is by no means a proof 
that you may not become something to-morrow. 
ITature's intentions are balked by manifold petty 
obstacles in the shape, it may be, of affluence, lux- 
ury, worldly influences. One way is open to every 
one who chooses to consider personal responsibility. 
To live your own life worthily, whatever your 
condition of birth, whatever your mental calibre, 
is the highest of human aims. Doing that, you 
need not worry your mind concerning results. 

Genius in a woman has a harder world-battle 
to fight than genius in a man. The woman has 
her natural timidity, modesty, self-depreciation, — 
in short, all the drawbacks of her sex, — to fight. 
Intellectual force is so uncommon in a woman's 
writings that the crowd invariably expects the 



164 GENIUS AND ITS LACK. 

woman who displays that force in her productions 
to represent it also in her face, manner, conduct. 
Hence that crowd is disappointed, quasi-indignant, 
if a woman strong in writing is not strong in her 
behavior. Thoughtless people cannot understand 
that, while the mind may be strong, the heart may 
be exquisitely susceptible. Genius requires tender 
exhortation mingled with unceasing encourage- 
ment. Especially does genius in woman need the 
practical aid to be found, as a rule, only in a conjugal 
companion. Intensity of thought and passionate 
emotions rarely find forms of beauty unless aided 
by the tact of world-wise men. Genius — whatever 
its shape — vanquishes the prejudices of society, re- 
vokes its most crushing verdicts. Yet genius does 
not win its triumphs without some toil, patient 
doing and undoing, stern self-denial. More than 
any other must a woman of intellectual force show 
her courage through silent endurance, through 
tender hypocrisies, through heroic struggles be- 
tween irksome social customs and her own ardent 
sensibilities. 



ACTOES AND ACTING. 



A GOOD play has the same effect upon me as a 
good novel. For the time I am as much absorbed 
in the page of life-history spread before me as if it 
were real. One character amuses, another appeals 
to the heart, another inspires repugnance. All the 
mental faculties are in turn excited, all the soul- 
chords touched and played upon. I come away very 
tired , but feel that there is good reason for it. I have 
enjoyed a great deal in a short time, and pleasure 
of any kind is exhausting. Acting is an art which 
specially deserves the title intellectual. It is not 
only that the text must be learned by the actor ; he 
must do much more than that. He must put him- 
self into the mind, heart, and soul of the character 
he personates. He must feel himself a king, a 
slave, a hero, a villain, a lover. Feeling it he will 
act it and sway the audience as with a magic wand. 
But this feeling is not a voluntary matter, is not the 
result of study even ; it is a direct effect of imagi- 
nation. With this faculty an actor may confidently 
throw himself into the breach and win distinction 
in proportion to his fidelity to his cause and his 

165 



166 ACTORS AND ACTING. 

bravery in action. Without this faculty he is 
merely an aspirant; no study, no application, no 
devotion, can ever carry him beyond mediocrity. 

Yet, even with this essential, much, very much 
more is needed. A man might have the thorough 
appreciation of his role resulting from a vivid 
imagination and still be a poor actor. To do a 
thing well requires not only a special faculty but 
special development. So well fixed is this truth 
in average minds that we learn to expect excellence 
only where hereditary traits seem to sanction proba- 
bility. For what does hereditary imply but an ac- 
cumulation of tangible or of mental forces ? Under 
ordinary conditions an actor's children look upon 
acting as their natural element. Their voices, lan- 
guage, movements, gestures, their games even, — 
all indicate the direction of mind and feeling. 
This continued through several generations, with 
proportionate culture and fidelity to art as art, must 
finally produce an actor or actress of genius. 

Which country of the present epoch furnishes 
the best actors and actresses? For, apart from 
genius, apart from mental gifts of lesser grades, 
nationality has a marked efiect upon this art. In a 
country where classes are distinctly marked, as in 
Europe, special attributes are handed down from 



ACTORS AND ACTING. 167 

generation to generation. A tradesman's modes 
of thought, of living, are adopted naturally by his 
children. They take their several parts in the 
household or in their social circle cheerfully and 
easily, never dreaming of any change of position. 

So in all the different branches of society, from 
court-life to the lowest strata, manners, usages, and 
modes of life are fixed by statute. Thoughts and 
feelings adapt themselves readily to absolute cer- 
tainty, and bring about correspondent results. An 
artisan, born of artisan parents, bred to his art with 
no other ambition than to perfect himself in it, will 
of necessity make a better workman than one who 
spends half his youth in trying different kinds of 
occupation. The same law applies to every kind 
of mental, or mechanical, or social pursuit. Apart 
from the innate facility there must be a life-long 
application to its development. This principle 
insures excellence and yields a possibility of 
perfection. 

That genius on the stage should be so rare, so 
isolated a fact, is inevitable, owing to the variety of 
gifts demanded. A musician may be illiterate 
while able to give full expression to his art. A 
poet may be uncouth in personal presence yet thrill 
the world with his song. A painter may be gro- 
tesque in feature yet produce pictures of exceeding 



168 ACTORS AND ACTING. 

beauty. A sculptor may be deformed yet create 
forms of admirable symmetry and grace. But for 
the actor, ability to act is merely one among 
numerous essentials. As an imitator of human 
nature, a reproducer of traits designed alternately 
to amuse, instruct, enchant, and terrify, the actor 
must start with a liberal supply of native attributes. 
First, as to personal advantages, his form must be 
shapely, agile, pliant, capable of expression through 
movement, attitude, gesture; his features pleasing 
through symmetry, attractive through adaptation 
to sentiment, humor, passion ; his manner a forci- 
ble exponent of both beauties and deformities of 
character ; his voice of wide range, boundless flexi- 
bility, prompt to interpret the diverse emotions of 
comedy or tragedy. Il^ext, as to mental requisites, 
he must combine swift apprehension with tenacious 
memory, keen analysis with poetic fervor, logical 
force with artistic delicacy. To see an actor pos- 
sessing all these qualifications in a state of culture 
can happen but seldom in a lifetime. 



THE CEITICS CEITICISED. 



Reviews of books possess a strong interest for 
all people of literary tastes. Whether the books 
themselves are new or old, we like to hear how 
they stand in the eyes of the critics. An author's 
first book finds its way to the reviewer's table in 
company with many others. Does the reviewer 
ever think of the extreme anxiety with which the 
young author awaits the opinion which is to seal 
the fate of his first-born? ITot that the author 
looks to the reviewer for a certificate of ability. 
A man is not necessarily conceited because he feels 
the existence of power within himself. He did not 
create it, he never dreams of taking any credit to 
himself on that score. He knows it just as he 
knows his stature, his features, his manner. The 
opinion of the public, then, makes not an iota of 
difierence as regards the actual ability he pos- 
sesses. But it makes a vast difiference in other 
respects, and these make him keenly susceptible 
to criticism. 

Book-reviewers may be classified thus : honest, 

flippant, non-committal. 

12 169 



170 ^^^ CRITICS CRITICISED. 

The representative of the honest type does not 
pass judgment upon a book because of its title, its 
publisher, its dress, its antecedents. He reads it 
with unbiassed mind, and, speaking from an impres- 
sion actually made, tells the world his opinion in 
the best lano:uao:e he can command. While this 
opinion is stamped with truth, it never deviates 
from courtesy, never becomes tinctured with in- 
tolerance, never makes the subject wince under 
irascibility. 

The reviewer of the class we may call flippant is 
like a blase man of society. He has seen every- 
thing, tried everything, felt everything. He refuses 
to be interested or surprised; he is incapable of 
being moved either to admiration or to indignation ; 
he regards with studied contempt every new-comer 
who is not heralded by external attributes or intro- 
duced by some one of mark. Such a critic ridicules 
sentiment and sneers at earnestness. His natural 
manner is one of alternate gross exaggeration and 
wilful misconstruction. Putting his shallow judg- 
ment upon the matter in hand, he takes from it 
whatever of solidity it may possess and pronounces 
it purely ephemeral. 

A reviewer of the flippant class has a withering 
effect upon books. He makes them seem worse 
than they are, because his readers see them through 



THE CRITICS CRITICISED. 171 

his flippancy. He thus ignores not only the par- 
ticular book under review, but all books. lie de- 
grades the calling of letters simply through his 
own unworthiness of belonging to it. To fall into 
the hands of such a critic is like being exposed to 
the gaze of a vulgar crowd. However great our 
discomfort, we cannot escape the ordeal without 
appearing to beat a retreat. We endure what is 
unavoidable while mentally scorning our tor- 
mentor. 

Of this style of reviewing a book we give a few 
illustrations from life. " ^ Essays on Social Life.' 
The volume with the above title is remarkable in 
two respects, — first, for its contents, and second, that 
it was written by a woman. It consists of twelve 
essays, entitled Education, Amusements, etc. 
Strictly speaking, the essays are little more than 
nicely-fitted mosaic-work of the thoughts of others. 
Almost every page contains a quotation, and the 
volume might be called Some of the best thoughts 
of F. G. H. I. K., and many other authors." 

Enough this to prove the charge of fiippancy. 
To begin by saying a book is remarkable for its 
contents, and in the next breath assert it to be 
nicely-fitted mosaic- work of the thoughts of others, 
is too palpable a contradiction to need comment. 
A book made by inserting the thoughts of others 



172 THE CRITICS CRITICISED. 

cannot be remarkable. Indeed, it must be quite 
the reverse, — commonplace. IN'ow, if a book be 
thus made, — merely " nicely-fitted mosaic-work," it 
is but just to stamp it as belonging to the class 
of compilations. By all means let the author hear 
his work called by its right name. But to call it 
remarkable and commonplace in the same breath 
is flippancy of the most reprehensible kind. 

Yet another illustration. The book under review 
is one upon certain phases of human nature. After 
mentioning the general purport of the volume, the 
critic says, " The art of writing about so vague a 
subject as human nature consists, in a great meas- 
ure, in putting well-worn thoughts in a new setting ; 
this approach to merit is hardly to be found in this 
book, and there is not enough newly-discovered 
truth to lighten up the somewhat verbose statement 
of what has been thought out and uttered already 
time out of mind." The flippancy here manifested 
is, first, in designating human nature as a vague sub- 
ject; second, in aflirming that the art of writing 
about it consists in putting well-worn thoughts in a 
new setting. Who save a critic of the flippant class 
would dream of calling human nature a vague sub- 
ject? Is there any man in existence who thinks 
himself vague? who thinks the people around 
him vague ? who thinks health, sickness, joy, and 



THE CRITICS CRITICISED. 173 

sorrow vague ? who thinks war, famine, pestilence, 
poverty, vague ? or wealth, luxury, and happiness 
vague? Yet are not all of these very clear at- 
tributes of human nature? If human nature is 
vague, then nothing is distinct, nothing is definable, 
nothing is describable. 

Again, who if not flippant would assert that 
writing about human nature requires merely the 
putting of well-worn thoughts in a new setting ? 
Little effort, indeed, would be required to make a 
book, were this all. Instead of well-worn thoughts 
in a new setting, we contend that writing upon 
human nature demands prior thinking, feeling, 
suffering, enjoying. We do not want well-worn 
thoughts, but new experiences related by a new 
individual. The setting is of far less consequence 
than the thoughts themselves. Slight, indeed, 
must be the appreciation of human nature as a 
study, if it deem well-worn thoughts in a new set- 
ting the highest round of the ladder in the mind's 
observatory ! 

A non-committal critic requires an interpreter. 
He caresses and belabors with the same hand, and 
performs both parts so calmly that we are at a loss 
to divine his true sentiments. To illustrate : A 
new book, the first one of its author, is under re- 



174 THE CRITICS CRITICISED. 

view. " This is in no sense a remarkable book," 
says the critic. 

Yery well, says the author, mentally in perfect 
agreement with the dictum. 

Line second : " Its thought is healthy, its tone 
unexceptionable, its 8tj\e vigorous." The author 
looks again, and with a sentiment of surprise. The 
first line had not led him to expect this drop of 
elixir. 

Line third : " Indeed, our only objection to it is a 
negative one. It does not meet a demand that has 
long been felt, and, after all, this is a tolerably safe 
criterion in literary as well as in material products." 
The author looks puzzled, and mutters to himself, 
H'm ! the only objection a negative one ! Cer- 
tainly this is more than I expected ! But what is 
this about not meeting a demand that has long been 
felt? Continuing his soliloquy, he says, I knew 
nothing about a demand, and certainly had no 
intention of meeting one. I wrote because the 
thoughts came, not because I supposed they would 
suit any particular person or purpose. I^othing 
surely was farther from my intention than this. 
Tracts, pamphlets, monographs, these I had always 
understood were written to meet a special need or 
situation. But a book I have hitherto looked upon 
as just as appropriate for one period as for another. 



THE CRITICS CRITICISED. I75 

It must have an aim, and if it have not, it merits 
severe handling. But to have an aim means some- 
thing wholly different from meeting a demand. 

Line fourth : " There are here brought together 
many excellent things bearing directl}^ or indirectly 
upon the subject. The author gives a multitude of 
extracts and from the best writers. For this we 
may thank him. It is certainly more creditable 
when a thought has been well expressed to quote 
the expression entire than to steal the idea and mar 
it in doing so." 

The author sips the elixir, but finds it tastes bitter. 
Again he soliloquizes : The critic likes my quota- 
tions, it seems, but evidently supposes they have 
been pressed into service to cover my own paucity 
of ideas. I myself had supposed they were brought 
forward in support of my own preconceived senti- 
ments. Not one of the thoughts in those quota- 
tions that had not pre-existed in my own mind. 
Otherwise why should I have selected just those 
thoughts and no others ? Is not sympathy the test 
of our own feelings ? The expression, I grant wil- 
lingly, is far superior to mine. The difference is 
that between master and pupil. 

Line fifth : " But is there nothing good in the 
book? We answer, yes. The predominant prin- 
ciples very nearly meet our own. Whatever we 



176 THE CRITICS CRITICISED. 

may say of the originality of the author's thought, 
no one will doubt the extent of his observations 
or the general lucidity of his style." The elixir 
has regained its original flavor. 

Line sixth : " We are in doubt whether the author 
intended any intimate connection between the dif- 
ferent parts of this book or not. It might have 
ended with Part I. and have fulfilled the promise 
in the title, or it might have continued through 
double the number of parts and have remained as 
incomplete as it now is. On the whole, we are glad 
that it did not choose the latter course." 

Again the author is somewhat surprised, and 
repeats involuntarily line fifth, which gives credit 
for lucidity of style. Can this last exist if the 
reader is left in doubt as to the connection between 
the parts of the book ? As to the incompleteness 
of the volume and the critic's satisfaction that there 
are not double the number of parts, the author 
cordially assents. To him the book is incomplete 
in the fullest sense of the word; and as to making 
it twice as long, he had too much consideration for 
his readers and himself. 

Line seventh : " However, although, as we say, 
the book is not a remarkable one, it may be added 
to the family library not only safely but profitably." 
Finis ! 



THE CRITICS CRITICISED. 177 

The above critique is one drawn from life. What 
opinion of the volume could be gained from such 
non-committal phrases ? Favor is so carefully 
balanced with disfavor that the words might be 
construed either way and make the same sense. 
In the name of authors — ^young or old, good or 
bad, brilliant or stupid — I protest against non- 
committal critics ! 



DEFENCE OF THE PEESS* 



Matthew Arnold's libel on the press of America 
is so manifestly written under excessive irritation 
that it hardly deserves calm criticism. Save under 
such an abnormal condition it would be impossible 
for a scholarly writer to make such an assertion as, 
" On the whole, and taking the total impression and 
effect made by them, I should say that if one were 
searching for the best means to efface and kill in 
a whole nation the discipline of respect, the feeling 
for what is elevated, one could not do better than 
take the American newspapers. The absence of 
truth and soberness in them, the poverty in serious 
interest, the personality and sensation-mongering, 
are beyond belief" 

Taking this alone, a thoughtless reader might 
well believe it were time to suppress, if not the 
whole newspaper fraternity, at least his own par- 
ticular morning and evening papers. Taken, 
however, by a thinking reader and with other 
statements in the same article, that bitter sentence 
of condemnation calls forth the observation that 

* A reply to Matthew Arnold. Written in 1888. 
178 



DEFENCE OF THE PRESS. 179 

Mr. Arnold must have been very angry wlien he 
wrote those words. 

No one would assert that the press in America is 
perfect. Seeing that men and women are behind 
the printed pages, reasonable critics do not expect 
superhuman qualities. Faults there are, of course, 
plenty of them. Yet these seem few when we 
think of the power of the press for good. Even its 
exposures of vice are beneficial to the community. 
That villany should be properly punished requires 
a fearless showing up of the villain. But here it 
may be said that newspapers, like novels, medical 
books, or even philanthropic researches, are not in- 
tended for children. The press of America, as a 
whole, is to-day so immense a power for good that 
it needs no praise, fears no censure. For enlight- 
ening the people, for stimulating them to true prog- 
ress, both mental and moral, the press is second 
to no other force, whether school or church, law or 
society. 

All that Arnold says in harsh criticism about 
America might apply to England, Germany, or any 
other civilized country to-day. America differs 
from others only in its youth, its vigor, its enthu- 
siasm. Boastful because young— is true of a coun- 
try as well as of men and women. Yet is not 
England, is not Germany, is not France boastful, 



180 DEFENCE OF THE PRESS. 

each in its own way? — a way naturally, because 
of age, more prudent, more diplomatic, more reti- 
cent, than that of America. At heart all countries 
are the same. Human nature in America is not 
one whit different from human nature in England. 

Arnold himself says, " So far from solving our 
problems successfully, we in England find ourselves 
with an upper class materialized, a middle class 
vulgarized, and a lower class brutalized." Take 
heart, dear Americans ! I^o thing worse than that 
frank statement about England to-day has ever 
been, or can ever be, said about America to-day. 
In very truth, a great writer is like a great speaker, 
— he is but human. Hence under irritation — as 
Arnold manifestly was when writing the above — 
the great writer is liable to say disagreeable things 
which he himself would afterwards earnestly wish 
unsaid. A great writer is as liable to mental irrita- 
tion as any lesser man. Mr. Arnold could hardly 
help being irritated when he read in a morning 
paper the very unpleasing description of himself 
which he himself quotes. 

Take this self-contradictory statement of the 
American people : " In what concerns the solving 
of the political and social problem they see clear 
and think straight; in what concerns the higher 
civilization they live in a fool's paradise." Could 



DEFENCE OF THE PRESS. 181 

any country receive higher laudation than the first 
half of that sentence ? If in the opinion of a for- 
eigner America has indeed reached the height of 
seeing and understanding " the political and social 
problem," she may well be proud of such a reputa- 
tion, may well be pardoned a little strutting and 
spreading of wings. Few among the American 
thinkers of to-day honestly believe their dear 
country to have yet reached that exalted condition 
mentioned by the eminent foreign thinker, for he 
is quite right in stating that " There are plenty of 
cultivated, judicious, delightful individuals there. 
They are our hope and America's hope; it is 
through their means that improvement must come." 

Precisely these same words are to be said of Eng- 
land, of Germany, of France. The masses in 
America are what they are in every other country, 
rude, blunt, uncultured, passionate, hence as a 
whole meant to be governed by the few. Mental 
superiority is to-day in America and in England no 
less a force than in ancient or mediaeval history. 

Again, consider carefully this statement which 
has caused much needless albeit natural honest in- 
dignation throughout the country. After saying of 
England as well as of America that " a born lover 
of ideas and of light could not but feel that the sky 
over his head is of brass and iron," Mr. Arnold 



182 DEFENCE OF THE PRESS, 

adds, " The human problem, then, is as yet solved 
in the United States most imperfectly ; a great void 
exists in the civilization over there ; a want of what 
is elevated and beautiful, of what is interesting." 

Alas for the feelings of the " born lover of ideas 
and of light" in any country of the world ! This 
" born lover" may be a poet or a poetic person of 
either sex, may live in America or in Europe, but, 
wherever he may live, he is ever the same isolated 
being, whether poor or rich, who feels " that the 
sky over his head is of brass and iron." 

Complaints about the press not being moral 
enough in tone, taking too much notice of wicked- 
ness and crime, " ghoulish glee" over sensational 
facts, adultery, divorce, et aL, are nonsense. What 
is the press ? Eead the newspapers of a past cen- 
tury and compare them with the history of that 
same century. Do the same with the daily and 
weekly newspapers of to-day. The press is not a 
preacher, not an art-critic, not a musical authority, 
not a philosopher. The press is no more than it 
professes to be, — the faithful mirror of the day. Its 
duty is to report, to state as clearly as may be what 
actually takes place in the community and in its 
neighboring or distant communities. Life as it is 
to-day is the picture the press attempts to give the 
public. 



MATTHEW AENOLD NOT A POET* 



Poetry analyzed, dissected, becomes dull prose. 
As well tear a butterfly to pieces, as well spread out 
the leaves of an exquisite rose and lecture upon 
the defunct beauties of insect and flower. Poetry 
is as incapable of description as beauty or music. 
Only a poetic mind can give a presentment of 
poetry, a mind in which imagination predominates. 
A poetic mind may produce a poet, an artist, a 
romance-writer, a critic. In the case of the poet, 
imagination must exist in excess of every other 
attribute ; in the case of the critic, imagination is 
held in check by reason. Here you find a philo- 
sophic mind, one capable of recognizing both true 
poetry and true psychology. A critic is by no 
means to be expected to execute the thing, in art 
or in literature, he criticises. In addition to those 
natural qualities an able critic must have had lib- 
eral opportunities to study the objects he criticises : 
first the natural qualities, next the culture that 
makes them available, trustworthy. 

* Written in 1888. 

183 



184 MATTHEW ARNOLD NOT A POET. 

Is " Sohrab and Rustum" poetry ? The author 
himself called it a narrative poem. If I were asked 
to describe it frankly as it struck me on the first 
reading, the answer would be : a dull tale told in 
solemn, stilted, prosaic words. It is plain prose 
spoiled by an attempted poetic effect. It is a com- 
position the labor of which is perceptible in every 
line, but specially irritating in its comparisons. 
For instance, after the lines 

"And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
Into the open plain ; . . . 
As when some gray November morn the files, 
In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes 
Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries. 
Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound 
For the warm Persian sea-board — so they stream'd." 

"Why bring in this simile about "long-neck'd 
cranes" ? k It can add nothing to the impressiveness 
of a great army of men marching, and spoils the 
effect by breaking thought, — giving a fact of natural 
history amid war and its dread passions. 

Then follows the description of the army : 

" The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, 
First, with black sheepskin caps and with long spears ; 
Large men, large steeds ;" etc. 



^^ C,*M/l.>— vt V4 W- 1^* 



MATTHEW ARNOLD NOT A POET. 135 

Oddly enough, in all the twenty lines of this 
picture of an Oriental army there is not a word to 
indicate the faces and forms and passions of the 
warriors. We read of their outer look : 

«' Light men and on light steeds, who only drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. . . . 
Of the Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps." 

We read of 

"Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray 
Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere." 

To give the garments without touching upon the 
features or motives of the warriors is to leave out 
the most forceful part. The second simile is singu- 
larly out of place : 

"As, in the country, on a morn of June, 
When . . . 
A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy." 

Simile number three follows closely : 

** But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool," 

(here follow nine lines to illustrate how pedlars 
cross a mountain,) 

"So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.'* 
13 



186 MATTHEW ARNOLD NOT A POET. 

If that be poetry at all, I call it very weak. Why 
go on ? The whole is simply a story narrated in 
Sir John Malcolm's History of Persia, one far 
better suited to prose than to poetry, — even of the 
ringing inspired sort that carries you be}' ond prosaic 
details, *• sheepskin caps," " troop of pedlars," etc. 

ITo natural poet could choose a theme prosaic in 
its nature. I^or could the natural poet compose 
his lines if not in the mood, not inspired. In 
" Sohrab and Kustum," from first to last, you feel 
that the author first read about the subject, then 
studied it, then composed the lines. The whole tone 
is strictly prosaic, heavy, measured, much more 
tedious than history. In the latter you do not ex- 
pect poetic descriptions, but the imagination quickly 
suggests them at mention of romantic incidents. 
In reading a poem, on the contrary, you have a 
right to expect. Not finding w^hat is promised, you 
are disappointed, irritated. Why call prosaic lines 
on a story related in a Persian history a narrative 
poem ? 

Brush aside tradition, clear your mind of the 
critics, prosaic or poetic, turn away from the big, 
thoughtless, dashing, live-for-to-day public ! This 
done, take your favorite poets of old, Byron, Shelley, 
and Keats. Drink again of the well-remembered 
vivifying wells of poetry in those pages ! Drink 



MATTHEW ARNOLD NOT A POET 187 

deep draughts of the sparkling elixir ! Drink, 
drink, until you feel yourself far, far away froni the 
bustle and dust and worry of these present, work- 
ing, pushing, money-getting days. This absorption 
in your favorite poets, — those enthroned by the 
twofold power of your mind and heart, — continue 
it days and days, weeks and weeks, until you feel 
yourself thoroughly saturated with the spirit of 
poetry as you believe it to be. Then — after the ex- 
citement has subsided, when you feel yourself calm 
and dispassionate, yetlirmin your convictions as to 
what poetry is and ought to be — then, I say, turn 
to Matthew Arnold's poems. Read with all your 
mind and heart; give yourself up unreservedly, 
earnestly, and let your judgment speak freely its 
verdict. 

But Matthew Arnold is a Professor of Poetry 
at Oxford, some one remarks. The title has a 
superb sound. Take it, however, in its absolute 
meaning, and what do you find ? Can any man 
anywhere be or become a Professor of Poetry ? 
Would it not be equally illogical to have a Professor 
of Genius ? Poetry cannot be taught. Why, then, 
have a professor for its teaching ? Poetry is mani- 
festly the work of a poet. He, if any man, should 
understand his art, hence be a teacher of it. Where 



138 MATTHEW ARNOLD NOT A POET. 

is the poet who would consent to be a teacher 
of his art? Would the idea, even in the greatest 
straits of indigence, ever have entered the head of 
a Bjron, a Shelley, a Keats ? 'No ; the poet is not 
a teacher. He is a singer. His art is not acquired, 
cannot be taught. As impossible for a poet to 
impart his skill to another person — be he never 
so receptive — as for a Beethoven or a Liszt to 
impart his gifts. For a university to have a Pro- 
fessorship of Poetry is an absurdity. That a man 
should accept that chair is a proof of his lack of 
poetic genius. 

A poet is born as he is, a man mentally unlike 
all other men, hence incapacitated for the ordinary 
routine school, college, or professor discipline. He 
learns intuitively what other men of prosaic nature 
spend years of plodding over without learning at 
all. A man can learn only those things his mind 
is capable of learning. iJTature gives as she chooses. 
What each man or woman has must be accepted as 
final. 

All the best things of certain so-called poets I 
should call simply prose. This, for instance, of 
Browning : 

*' I count life just a staff to try the soul's strength, educe the 
man — 
Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve." 



MATTHEW ARNOLD NOT A POET. 189 

Is there, then, higher genius in poetry than in 
prose ? Two things have always heen very clear to 
me : in poetry of the so-called best poets there is a 
great deal of plain prose ; and in prose of the best 
sort there is a vast amount of poetry. Where, then, 
is the distinctive mark of greatness, of genius ? 



WALT WHITMAN'S SO-CALLED POETEY* 



Open " Leaves of Grass" at random. Suppose the 
first of the Leaves to be " Native Moments." The 
title is good, — the only thing good, indeed, in the 
verses, so called. Such moments come to every 
man, to every woman. The kind of nature in those 
moments is something for which we are only half 
responsible. No one can change the brain or the 
heart nature has given. At best, it can but be 
modified by careful training. At worst, it but acts 
out its iniquity or ferocity. " Native Moments," 
then, are fitting to write about. The vulgar boor 
has one kind, the sensitive poet another kind. 
What we have a right to assert is that prose and 
poetry should be relegated to their respective places 
in literature. Read " Native Moments" and say in 
which line or sentiment you see the faintest trace 
of poetry. 

"Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and 
rank." 



* Written in 1883. 
190 



WALT WHITMAN'S SO-CALLED POETRY. 191 

This one line is quotation enougli to express the 
idea. Let any one who desires "life coarse and 
rank" take it. There is a superabundance of such 
pasture in the world. It is not with a man's native 
moments I would find fault. But to call plain, out- 
spoken prose poetry, to set before us the common 
every- day talk of a crude, coarse, prosaic thinker 
and bid us bow to poetic genius, is absurd. Every 
man has a right to live as he chooses. Every 
woman has the same right. In this idea which 
sounds all through " Leaves of Grass" Walt Whit- 
man shows a strong, healthy nature. 

But sound philosophic ideas are not to be con- 
founded with poetic ones. A philosopher is one 
thing, a poet another. They are no more the same 
than a songstress and a woman preacher are the 
same. When a philosopher, then, begins to poet- 
ize, to put into verse what belongs to prose, it pre- 
sents the appearance of sham. It is a putting on 
of another man's garment, one too big, too fine, 
wholly inappropriate, ludicrous, distasteful to a 
sound mental judgment. Let the singers sing, and, 
whatever fault we may find with the moral, we can 
yet listen with patience or pleasure to the song. 
When not singing the singer sinks to the common 
level of human beings. 

In the same way let the prose writer write in his 



192 WALT WHITMAN'S SO-CALLED POETRY. 

clearest, most intelligible words the thoughts con- 
ceived in his brain. He too when not writing is 
but a common mortal. This is life, this is nature, 
this is truth. What must we say when a prose 
writer insists upon a continuous masquerade in a 
poet's mantle ? 

" I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers, 
Tiie echoes ring with our indecent calls," etc. 

The barefaced vulgarity of such lines would, of 
course, be inaudible and invisible to a person of 
avowedly low tastes. But that the framer of such 
lines should claim the title of poet is effrontery at 
once brazen and ridiculous. 

Open again at random. " Song of Myself," 
another promising title. If a man be stronger, 
broader, more beautiful, more truthful, than the 
herd, there is nothing better to write about than 
self. But here less than in any other subject need 
there be singing in prose. Philosophy is not fitted 
for verse, — not even for the blankest of blank. 
Let us see how Walt Whitman sings of himself. 

"If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore. 
The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of 

waves a key. 
The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words. 

No shutter 'd room or school can commune with me. 
But roughs and little children better than they. 



WALT WHITMAN'S SO-CALLED POETRY. I93 

The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well, 
The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take 
me with him all day," etc. 

Plain, practical, prosaic taste, not to be cavilled at; 
every man has full freedom to take from the world 
what he best likes. The protest is merely this, — 
not to call talking singing. To see all things, near 
and far, high and low, good and bad, is the natural 
bent of a thoughtful mind. To talk about or write 
about them is fitting, laudable, the best indeed that 
such a mind can do. 

But whatever is done or undone in this busy, 
whirling, mad world, let us each in his sphere, 
with his strength, try to keep the law of congruity : 
music from the musician for the music-loving man 
or woman; art from the artist for the art-loving, 
art-appreciating soul; intellect — its laws, capaci- 
ties, products — for the intellectual, for men and 
women born to think, trained to think, glad and 
happy to think. 

Of this divine law of congruity Walt "Whitman 
has no conception. Indeed, he is the best personi- 
fication of the incongruous that contemporary lit- 
erature has to ofifer. Life-pictures he gives and 
delights in giving. He is untiring in gazing, in 
acting, overflowing with the vitality that uses every 
atom of dust, every leaf of foliage, every beauty, 



194 WALT WHITMAN'S SO-CALLED POETRY. 

every blot in mankind. Common things, ugly, 
crawling, repulsive things, low, corrupted, hideous 
things, — these are taken in and welcomed by his 
mind as heartily as if they were things beautiful, 
things poetic. 

From " Song of Myself" take another sample at 
random : 

" The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of 
the promenaders, 
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, 
the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor." 

" The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his 
knife at the stall in the market. 
I loiter, enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and breakdown." 

Is this poetic? is this poetry? If so, what is 
prose ? Or take lines from the " Song of the Open 
Road :" 

" Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons. 
It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the 
earth." 

There can be no objection, certainly, to a man's 
holding this creed of the savage, to his both hold- 
ing and expressing it. But to call such lines poetry 
is to misname, to stultify, to work confasion most 
grievous. Again, in the same " Song of the Open 



WALT WHITMAN'S SO-CALLED POETRY, I95 

Road" we find this most unwise, unsound, as well 
as unpoetic analysis of wisdom : 

" Here is the test of wisdom : 

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools. 

Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not 
having it. 

Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own 
proof, 

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content, 

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and 
the excellence of things ; 

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that pro- 
vokes it out of the soul," 

Could words be more untrue ? 



POETRY IS NOT DEAD* 



Julian Hawthorne says, "A man who gives 
himself up to poetry nowadays is regarded by the 
average sense of the community as unpractical and 
a little absurd. Eeligion and poetry are in the 
highest sense identical, and the Bible is the great 
poem of all time. Is it because religion has be- 
come a mere thing of forms and traditions and 
' livings' and church steeples and impotent resent- 
ment against Darwinism, that poetry is losing 
honor and influence ?" f 

Belief in the genius of Julian Hawthorne does 
not imply agreement with all he says. For in- 
stance, nothing that he and all the critics of Eng- 
land and America combined could say would make 
me believe that " poetry is losing honor and influ- 
ence." Why should poetry be in this unhappy 
plight ? Can beauty ever die out ? Can the grace 
and charm of intellectual life ever grow old, de- 



* Written in 18S8. 

f The American Magazine, April, 1888. 
196 



POETRY IS NOT DEAD. 197 

crepit, hideous ? Not so. All the world agces that 
beauty of person and beauty of soul are alike im- 
mortal. One beautiful woman dies, many beautiful 
women die. Beauty never dies. So w^ith poetry. 
One poet dies, many poets die. Poetry itself is 
perpetual. In every age there have been poets : 
ours is no exception. Yet all people cannot recog- 
nize poets. Men and women living in the world 
driven by its hard logic of ways and means can 
hardly be expected to see any poetry in life. ITev- 
ertheless it exists, just as romance exists, possibly 
close to the cynical observer's fireside. 

Nothing is so diificult as to make people believe 
in what they cannot understand. The musician 
has his own world. The artist has another kind. 
The inventor has still another. The society woman 
has hers. The domestic wife and mother clings to 
hers as the best. The philanthropist, or the devotee, 
— in or out of convent, — has still another kind. 
All men and women of any force, of any capacity 
whatsoever, cling to what they are now doing or 
wdsh to do as the best of life. And such doing is 
the best. 

Poetry can no more lose ground than beauty 
or music can lose their influence. A born poetic 
character — man or woman — is poetic to the end. 
"While saying this and believing it devoutly, I do 



198 POETRY IS NOT DEAD. 

not forget the hardness of life for poets and poetic 
people. 

Poetry, like painting, is judged according to the 
mind that is appointed — ^by self or others — to criti- 
cise. A new volume of poems is given to a critic, 
whether of newspaper or of magazine. It makes 
or does not make any particular impression. Yet 
something of decided opinion must be given. A 
very prosaic mind even may be called upon to 
express poetic opinions. 

Poets and poetry live to-day as they have ever 
lived, as they will live on forever. If you think 
you have an inkling as to their meaning, treasure 
it as a something better than a costly house or a 
sparkling jewel. Above all, see to it that you keep 
that inkling intact, free from the rust of disuse, 
from the affectations of sentiment and passion, from 
the shams of conventional life. The faculty of see- 
ing beauty is usually coexistent with a passionate 
heart. It is the key to the artist-poet nature. You 
see it in the highest t3'pes of actor, of musician, of 
artist, of writer of fiction and of poetry. To know 
what poetry is you need not be a poet. But your 
mind must possess a poetic vein. 



EGYPT AND THE DESEET. 



Oriental roving, — who takes a warm interest in 
this? Assuredly not the busy, planning, driving 
people who believe material existence the sole in- 
centive to activity and the best reward of perse- 
verance. They would deny point-blank that the 
water of the ]N'ile could be different from that of 
any other river ; would hold ancient temples and 
palaces as so many worthless masses of stone, 
hieroglyphics as far less interesting than the 
daily newspaper ; would deem two or three months 
of boat-life either an unpardonable waste of time 
or drearily tedious. 

Or, of the Desert, — what would be their version ? 
Probably, a series of discomforts and privations 
from beginning to end. They would tell of the 
miseries of camel-riding; of the annoyances of 
tent-life; of the extortions and treachery of the 
Arabs ; of the sufferings incident to blazing suns, 
hot south winds, fierce-driving sand-storms; of 
frequent risks from robbers or assassins. 

Yet to some other people — as a test, say those 

199 



200 EGYPT AND THE DESERT 

who once could, nay, who even now can, lose them- 
selves in " The Thousand and One lights" — there 
is a peculiar fascination in the bare thought of the 
Orient. If you are one of that kind, you hail as a 
rich and dearly-prized privilege the opportunity of 
making the thought a reality. A natural reverence 
for antiquity makes you enthusiastic in anticipation; 
you ascend the Mle not for amusement but as if on 
a pilgrimage to that deeply-interesting yet always 
solemn re2:ion called Past As-es. Your stashes of 
travel are slow and gradual enough to prepare your 
mind for its new acquisitions. 

You sail up the Nile in a dahabieh, and during 
some days find ample occupation in the semi- 
domestic drama enacted by the crew of Egyptians 
and Kubians, the Maltese dragoman and servants, 
and your own party. First of all, the narrow space 
— the condensed comfort and discomfort — of your 
quarters, and the domestic routine, so to speak, of 
the journey. For, what with the meals, reading, 
and studying, and the running out upon deck to see 
the river sights, — the crocodiles, birds, " sakias" 
and " shadoofs," the palm-trees, villages, and fel- 
lahs on the shore, — the days pass with exceeding 
rapidity. 

And then the evenings on the Nile, — these alone 
stand out as special epochs of subdued delight. 



EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 201 

Can there be in any other land such deep flame- 
colored sunsets, — sunsets followed by that won- 
drous after-glow which neither pen nor canvas can 
portray, which must be seen and felt to be under- 
stood ? ^Never, perhaps, in any part of the Orient, 
can you have so absolute a realization of Eastern 
atmosphere as when sitting dreamily in that after- 
glow. You linger in it until the last instant, you 
part with it in the hope of witnessing another and 
another. 

Then there are sudden squalls, at times rending 
the sails and threatening to capsize the boat, fre- 
quent running aground, and, when there is no wind 
to fill the sails, the curious process " tracking." 
Seeing the crew walking along the shore Indian- 
file dragging the boat up-stream by a rope, you 
begin to think your progress is to be a slow^ and 
laborious matter. Then come squabbles and ridic- 
ulous contentions among the crew and servants, 
detentions for the baking of bread and buying of 
provisions. Least endurable of all the annoyances 
is the concert of horrible discord performed nightly 
by some of the crew ; one plays on a kind of pipe, 
others beat drums, while the rest sing and clap their 
hands in chorus, — altogether a savage monotony 
of noise distracting in quality, seemingly endless 
in quantity. 



202 EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 

At last, after many days and nights of alternate 
sailing, '* tracking," and " poling," the First Cata- 
ract is reached. Then follows the usual excursion 
into ISTubia, to see Philse — the Holy Island — and 
those few miles of scenery beyond which make 
you desire to go on to the Second Cataract. But 
the Nile is to be descended and all the wonders of 
its banks explored. And doing this you see that for 
which no reading, no imagining, had fully prepared 
you. Day by day you wander through ruins of 
temples and temple-palaces, measure with eye and 
mind those proportions w^hich only the closest 
observation and oft-repeated visits can even par- 
tially realize. IS'ever before have you had any 
conception of height, of breadth, of massiveness, 
of colossal grandeur. With mingled curiosity and 
awe you ponder over those pictured walls setting 
forth the religious beliefs and rites, the arts of 
building, the war-adventures and triumphs, every 
phase of out-door and in-door life as lived in 
remote eras of history. And in those weird tombs 
you see the individual lives of the owners repre- 
sented with a detail and an accuracy which stamp 
upon your mind ineftaceably the close kinship of 
humanity however great the interval between their 
lives. There are men, women, and children in their 
work, in their amusements, in their joy, in their 



EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 203 

sufferinoc, in all the scenes between life and death. 
Even beyond this the pictures go, — just as mortals 
of this era go, — representing confidently and defi- 
nitely the hereafter according to the popular faith 
of the country. 

In short, history — of the very earliest epochs — is 
here brought before your eyes as pictures are shown 
to children. Whatever your actual condition of 
mind, you are forced into learning much, into 
thinking and believing still more. And mingled 
with the wonders of ancient times are the ugly 
facts of modern Egypt, — the oppression, ignorance, 
poverty, squalor of its population. The Past and 
the Present are here indeed difiicult to reconcile. 
Upon the whole, as a rover — not as a philosopher 
— you do not feel bound to reconcile such incon- 
gruities, but simply give yourself full liberty to 
look, to study, to be impressed, to dream. That 
every day's journey adds to your life-store of 
thought and feeling, that every new grain of that 
acquisition awakens a deeper interest in things 
heard of or imagined yet buried under the mighty 
sands you tread, — of this you are sure. What if, 
looking back through an intervening vista of years, 
those days appear hardly more real than the child's 
reading of Eastern tales ? Is not all " looking 
back" a seeming unreality? Can yesterday or 



204 EGYPT AND THE DESERT, 

last week be touched save in tliou2:ht and in feel- 



ing? 



The descent of the Mle accomplished, you visit 
the Great Pyramids, which, strange to say, appear 
to decrease in size as you approach; but once at 
the base, their magnitude makes itself duly felt. 
What a mob of Arabs here, all wishing to be en- 
gaged as guides ! Selection being made, you and 
your party begin the ascent of those huge stones ; 
but your guides give your arms such tremendous 
jerks at every step that you soon dispense with their 
rude aid, and prefer clambering up alone, although 
you find it a feat testing well the quality of lungs 
and muscles. A brief repose enables you to take 
in the fine prospect from the summit, and then 
comes the descent, — a process more enjoyable than 
the other. You do not grow dizzy, so you jump 
down three or four steps and then sit down to feast 
your eyes upon the view, the brilliant sky, and the 
unique appearance of the Pyramid itself with its 
dazzling rows of steps. At the base you partake of 
a substantial luncheon, and then explore the interior 
of the Pyramid, a performance by no means agree- 
able either at the time or in recollection. Each 
member of the party has a guide, and each guide a 
lighted candle. You take the arm of your dusky, 
wild-looking cavalier, and enter through a small 



EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 205 

opening into a low, narrow, descending passage 
paved with marble so highly polished that it is 
well-nigh impossible to keep a foothold. You 
grope through several corridors of this kind before 
coming to a larger one where there is a steep ascent 
on a very slippery inclined plane, with grooves for a 
foothold every three or iov// feet. Here you must 
perforce put your arms around your Arab escort, 
and even then feel by no means safe, for on one side 
seems to be an ugly precipice ; besides this, the air 
is stiflingly close, and there are immense quantities 
of sand and fine dust which choke you, — producing 
altogether sensations of mingled awe and disgust. 
At last the King's Chamber, the Queen's Chamber, 
and other rooms are reached, — then the winding 
passages again, then, best of all, the daylight and 
the fresh air once more. You think it very solemn, 
but very oppressive ; you are glad to have been in 
there, but you do not want to go a second time. 

Days in Cairo preparatory to crossing the Desert, 
— these present novel and entertaining incidents. 
What human activity, partly European, partly 
Asiatic, is here in the streets and suburbs ! What 
crowds of clamorous donkey-boys, Avith their know- 
ing-looking, easy-gaited, tiny brutes, which they 
push up amid deafening shouts and reckless scuf- 



206 EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 

fling to the first stranger who presents himself in 
the door-way! At first you think somebody is 
being mobbed, but after a few days' acquaintance 
with modern Egyptians and Arabs you find that 
nothing can be done without this screaming and 
hubbub. What picturesque scenes, in which 
mosques and minarets, bazaars, camels, Arab 
horses with gayly-attired riders, people of various 
nationalities and tribes, burning sun, clouds of 
dust, shady, groves, and cool breezes are oddly 
mingled ! If a youthful traveller, — especially if a 
woman, — you go with your party, see what they 
see, do as they tell you to do. But in addition to 
this there is another pleasure that falls to you, — 
your own way of seeing and deducing things, of 
taking mental sketches, one which perhaps only 
years later brings forth fruit. At the time — and 
this applies as well to a later period, when you visit 
other famous cities of the Orient — all that you 
clearly know is this : you are sojourning in that 
Orient of which as a child you drank in such long, 
deep draughts of allegory, romance, and poetry. 
This you never lose sight of, spite of all the discom- 
fort and fatigue inseparable from Oriental travel. 

The Desert offers another phase of the Orient 
which no one possessing the true spirit of roving 



EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 207 

would willingly miss. Granted that the forty 
days between Cairo and Jerusalem necessitate cer- 
tain severe privations and some real anxieties, yet 
may we not well include those for the sake of the 
other side, — the great gain of new ideas and many 
hoars of pleasure? Surely it is something to have 
ridden on camels through many long days and 
some still longer nights ! Not that the camel is 
interesting as an animal. From the very first ac- 
quaintance with him — a trial ride in Cairo — up to 
the parting in Hebron, he seemed to you the very 
incarnation of impatience, surliness, and ugly 
snarling. Eight out of the nine travellers in your 
party were ready, you think, to agree with Harriet 
Martineau when she says, " The mingled expres- 
sion of spite, fear, and hopelessness in the face of 
the camel always gave me the impression of its 
being, or feeling itself, a damned animal. I wonder 
some of the old painters of hell did not put a 
camel into their foreground, and make a tradi- 
tional emblem of it." Indeed, recalling your own 
sensations during that same Desert journey, you 
pronounce it the most trying and exhausting mode 
of travel ever attempted. The uncouth jerking 
motion when rising or kneeling down for the 
rider to mount or dismount is a process requiring 
some moments of mental bracins^ before submit- 



208 EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 

ting to it. Then their regular swaying, swinging 
strides continued through many consecutive hours 
produce a seeming dislocation both of bones and of 
nerves. Yet, once started upon this desert journey, 
there is no escaping the dromedary's back for the 
greater part of the day ; for only the Bedouins or 
those inured to their life could keep up with the 
camel's stride. When towards evening you are 
permitted to dismount and walk, it seems a com- 
plete and blissful restoration to the poor, jerked- 
about, harassed body. 

!N'or can any one who has traversed the Desert 
forget the blazing suns and glaring sands of many 
of the days; and worse, far worse, is the burning 
south wind, which often blows three successive 
days. Imagine the w^hole caravan moving off 
about six of a fine, cool April morning (which 
^' moving," by the way, is not done without a vast 
amount of running about and vociferating on the 
part of the Bedouins and European servants as 
they take down and roll up tents, and gather up 
beds, mattresses, pillows, tables, camp-stools, etc., 
to be packed aAvay on the camels' backs until the 
next camping-place is reached in the evening), 
then imao-ine about nine a breeze as if from an 
oven begininng to blow, and growing stronger and 
hotter every hour until your face is literally baked, 



EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 209 

your lips and mouth painfully parched. Added 
to this, occasionally, is a persistent sand-drizzle, an 
atmosphere of fine sand to breathe instead of air, 
a sand which penetrates everything on you and 
around you, even to the piece of bread or biscuit 
you take for your luncheon. 

Thirst — excessive, incessant, unquenchable thirst 
— is another painful recollection of the Desert. 
True, your supplies are supposed to be ample, and 
at intervals you come to oases where clear, fresh 
springs replenish your barrels and skins ; but even 
this does not prevent an ever-present actual thirst, 
or a continual recollection and anticipation of its 
cravings. At times it seems as if neither tea nor 
wine nor water could allay the sensation. You 
look with longing eyes at the barrels of w^ater on 
the baggage-camels ; water, water, is never absent 
from your thoughts; even the absolutely muddy 
water which some days is the only kind to be 
had, you hold as a rare treat. And at such times, 
when even this supply is known to be diminishing, 
with what expectant anxiety all await the return of 
the Arab who has been despatched on one of the 
fleetest dromedaries of the caravan in search of 
springs! This thirst,— excessive and incessant, — 
was there nothing to assuage it ? Yes, one thing 
there was, a nectar pure and cool and vivifying. 



210 EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 

but one, alas, of which there was never enough 
for the panting mortals who craved it. Often be- 
fore had I tested its luscious properties, absorb- 
ing pleasure and calmness with every drop of the 
precious fluid. Delicate, amber-colored nectar ! I 
see it before me now with its countless golden 
globules reflecting the light, a beverage at once 
odorous and tempting, and with eye drinking in 
the beauty of the liquid, and nostril inhaling the 
spicy perfume, taste is at last appealed to, — the 
climax reached. Sensuous delight of the most 
rare yet harmless kind fills the being, — in a single 
instant all hunger, thirst, and fatigue vanish. 
Seldom, indeed, can the senses of man be indulged 
without a bitter residue of regret, satiety, or in- 
ebriety ! Would you know the name of this nectar 
which may well bear comparison with the mythical 
drink of a by-gone age ? If so, ask for the orange, 
— not that acid, tough-fibred, half-dried thing too 
often called by that name, but the full-ripe, full- 
flavored orange of tropical climes. 

Then, too, I recall days at Akaba on the Eed Sea, 
— days of bargaining with the Bedouins for drom- 
edaries and escorts to go to Petra. Here it is 
demonstrated very plainly that greed for gold is 
by no means a quality peculiar to the European 



EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 211 

race. In fact, these wandering Arabs, with appar- 
ently so little need for money, seem animated by 
the self-same spirit that prompts men in all other 
parts of the world to take all they can get. But 
in this case even gold will not avail in furthering 
the wishes of you and your party. For, after eight 
days' encampment at Akaba and endless palaver- 
ing and quarrelling, Petra must be abandoned, be- 
cause the Sheik who was to serve as your escort is 
at war with the tribes there. 

Then, too, come days and nights of risk, — lia- 
bility of attack from tribes of Bedouins hostile to 
those acting as our escort. The travellers are cau- 
tioned to keep their dromedaries together as much 
as possible, the gentlemen to keep their fire-arms 
ready for use. Yet, through some natural perver- 
sity of the dromedaries and the baggage-camels, 
these days are just the ones when they seem most 
inclined to straggle, to stop, to nibble the shrub- 
bery, and to be in every way unruly. 

These days of risk were greatest in going from 
Damascus to Palmyra, a journey deemed somewhat 
adventurous at that date. To the latest day of 
existence you will never forget one sensation en- 
dured, — that of sleepiness, overpoweringly painful 
sleepiness, while travelling by night on the camel. 
There were moments — many of them — when you 



212 EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 

did nod, nod, nod, while the animal strode, strode, 
swayed, swayed; but to sleep would have been 
certain breaking of your neck. Fear of this alone 
enabled you to bear the torture. 

Yet, all in all, the privations and risks of the 
Desert are fully counterbalanced by the actual en- 
joyment mingling with them and the rich harvest 
of memories added to life. 

The pleasures of the Desert would make a long 
list if drawn up by a rover capable of seeing and 
profiting by the whole. Perhaps nowhere do we 
find greater surprises as regards air, scenery, and 
effects. If there are days of scorching heat and 
driving sand, there are also days of deliciously cool 
and bracing temperature. Indeed, the extraordi- 
nary purity of the atmosphere is a continual sub- 
ject of wonder ; so, too, are the clouds and show- 
ers and sudden gales which vary the anticipated 
monotony of the Desert. 

And the scenery, — what more varied and pic- 
turesque than those wild, narrow defiles of the 
silent, mysterious mountain-ranges ! — rugged, steep 
mountains, some portions rising to sharp, fanci- 
ful peaks of every size, resembling in outline 
Moorish architecture as seen in the honejxomb 
stalactites of the Alhambra, and all of the most 



EGYPT AND THE DESERT, 213 

varied and brilliant colors. The rocks and stones 
on the road are likewise vividly tinted, and appear 
as if washed by the waves. Interest and wonder 
are constantly in play here in these rocky defiles, 
yet there is a weirdness about them, and a heated 
air enclosed as it were without chance of escape, 
which would make encampment there even for one 
day or one night insufferable. A sense of glad re- 
lief accompanies the exit, and a positive rejoicing 
ensues upon reaching one of those fragments 
of Paradise called oases. Who that has passed 
over this desert region does not preserve vivid 
recollections of that model oasis, Wady Teiran ! 
where there are luxuriant palms, delicate acacias, 
grasses in the rock-clefts, and above all a deli- 
ciously cool, clear stream running through the 
centre, and inviting us to drink, drink long 
draughts of the crystal beverage we never be- 
fore so dearly valued. Only for one night is the 
halt in this lovely spot, where so much rest, so 
much enjoyment, are condensed into that brief 
space. The Arabs make the encampment, then 
kindle a brilliant fire, and seat themselves on the 
ground around it with their never-failing pipes. 
The travellers avail themselves of such meagre 
comforts as saddle-bags afford, revel in plenty of 



214 EGYPT AND THE DESERT. 

water, and take in the full beauty of the spot 
until fatigue drives them to their couches. 

The Desert crossed, and quarantine passed at 
Hebron, another and wholly different phase of the 
Orient begins. Dromedaries are exchanged for 
horses, and, while tents are still retained, they 
alternate with convents and semi-European, semi- 
Asiatic inns. A summer passed in Palestine and 
Syria implies a series of visits to historical — real 
and traditional — places ; a roving over and dwell- 
ing upon the mountains of Lebanon ; intercourse 
with many people of various nationalities, tribes, 
and religions. Scenes of exquisite natural beauty 
alternate with scenes of grossest superstition; 
places sacred to Christendom are disgraced by the 
shameful squabbles of so-called Christians ; peace- 
ful valleys are stained with fierce battles of Arab 
tribes. In variety of actual fact and incident, in 
association and historical interest, no other country 
offers stronger attractions to the rover of imagina- 
tive tendencies. 



VEEBOEKHOYEN AND HIS STUDIO* 



Out the Chaussee de Haecht, one of the prin- 
cipal streets of Brussels, where a great many artists 
live, is a house bearing upon its door-plate the 
name Eugene Yerboekhoven. There is a gate-way 
and a wall enclosing a fine shady garden, with trees 
and grass. Back of this stands the house itself, 
which has more the appearance of a villa than of 
a town house. Upon approaching the front door 
you may be saluted, as we were, by a chorus of 
dogs' voices coming from the right, the animals, 
fortunately for timid persons, being chained. To 
the ring at the bell a young girl with pleasing 
manner answers, and, being properly accredited 
visitors, we are at once shown to the studio. M. 
Verboekhoven himself opens its door; we are pre- 
sented in due form, and are invited in. A short, 
elderly man with spectacles and rather reddish 
face, dressed in gray, brush and palette in hand, 
bows, and almost instantly reseats himself and 



* Written in 1867. 

215 



216 VERBOEKHOVEN AND HIS STUDIO. 

begins to paint. He is hard at work upon a 
medium-sized picture — a group of sheep. A slight 
sense of surprise comes over us at the abruptness 
of his manner, but this feeling instantly vanishes. 
"We can but admire his enthusiasm. Almost every 
day the poor famous man is interrupted in this 
way. 

After a few seconds, during which we are busy 
in taking a general view of the place, M. Ver- 
boekhoven, without even turning round, remarks 
that he hopes his visitors will excuse him for 
keeping on with his work. Whereupon we, of 
course, reply that every one knows well how 
valuable his moments must be, and so on. 

The first sensation upon entering the studio is 
that of delicious coolness. The apartment is a 
large, lofty, square room, lighted from the roof, 
with two doors, one where you enter and one 
opposite leading to the goat- and sheep-stables, 
where the models are kept. To be in such a room 
is like experiencing a cool, fresh bath after the 
heat and glare of the outside world upon a hot 
August day. 

How, you think, he must enjoy working in an 
atmosphere so ideal in every sense as this! The 
walls from top to bottom are covered with pictures 
and sketches of all sorts, — all by his own hand, — 



VERBOEKHOVEN AND HIS STUDIO. 217 

heads, figures, animals, but mostly the last. There 
is also a fine plaster cast of a tigress and her cubs, 
life-size. In another room, just across the passage, 
precisely the same in size and appearance as the 
one we are in, are more pictures and casts, every 
inch of available space being covered. These two 
rooms composing the studio are attached to the 
dwelling, and were evidently built for the special 
purpose to which they have been put. In the 
second room, besides innumerable pictures and 
studies of all sorts, are two very large paintings, 
— one occupying the centre of the left side — 
Rubens on horseback, life-size, and a landscape 
with animals, — both superb pictures. 

Some moments after we enter the second room, 
to our surprise, the great artist comes in, without 
his brush, and begins to converse pleasantly. At 
first we naturally hesitate about entering into con- 
versation, thinking it might detain or embarrass 
him, but, finding that he really is inclined to play 
the host, we gladly enough turn our attention from 
the works to the man. He speaks in French ; he 
understands a little English, he says, but has no 
time to study it. 

I speak of certain paintings of his which we 
have seen in America, and of his reputation for 
marvellous swiftness. " Ah," he replies, " I have 

15 



218 VERBOEKHOVEN AND HIS STUDIO. 

no greater facility than others for rapid painting. 
I accomplish more because I work more. Every 
morning at five I am at work, and from that till 
dusk. Where others give six hours I give twelve, 
— that is the only difference." " Yes, I have 
worked hard," he repeats several times during 
the conversation, but not as if attributing any 
merit to himself. He states it in a simple, grave 
manner as a fact, just as one might say it of 
another. 

Sculpture he has always admired more, and 
taken more delight in it, than painting. His 
father was a sculptor, and he himself had been 
one at the outset. Even now he spends much time 
with the clay during winter evenings. In this 
room are several more casts, — a very fine lion and 
a Yenus, which, we were subsequently told, the 
artist uncovers only for specially favored visitors. 
I could not help expressing surprise that he should 
not have chosen sculpture rather than painting, 
considering that he took more pleasure in it, and 
that he regarded it as a higher art. His reply was 
that it had been necessary to work for an existence, 
and that he had made his reputation by his paint- 
ings ; there was time for the one branch only, and 
he had chosen the one that gave him bread and 
butter. 



VERBOEKHOVEN AND HIS STUDIO. 219 

Had he done anything in marble ? we question. 
"Yes, a bust of myself," he replies, and he will 
show it to us, with pleasure: It is in his dwelling, 
but in a very poor place, where the light does not 
fall upon it properly. 

But before leaving this room he shows us some 
studies of heads — sheep's, lambs', goats' — in every 
variety of position. He explains how plainly na- 
tionality is stamped upon the faces, and how differ- 
ent each face is, — precisely as much difference as 
in human countenances. With him it requires but 
one glance to distinguish the Scotch, English, or 
Flemish animal. "Ah," says he, "you have no 
idea how much work there is in all these studies ; 
again and again they must be made and remade 
until the right expression and position are caught." 
There is that in his voice which speaks of many 
weary hours of toil and patience, — hours concern- 
ing which none but himself knows. Apparently 
M. Yerboekhoven is between sixty and seventy 
years old, but, notwithstanding his unusual appli- 
cation, he enjoys good health. The only sign of 
feebleness one notices appears in his voice. Between 
sixty and sixty-two he was quite blind for eighteen 
months. Of this sad period, however, he does not 
speak. 

Our visit terminates with the view of the bust 



220 VERBOEKHOVEN AND HIS STUDIO. 

up-stairs in his private parlor. To get up there 
one must go through the studio again and into the 
sheep-stable, where he introduces to us two splen- 
did Scotch specimens, — " wild fellows," he says, 
"just arrived." Here, too, are several little lambs, 
white and gentle. Then we pass along a corridor 
filled with paintings and up a flight of stairs. The 
bust of himself is fine as a work of art, and the 
marble is perfect, but as a likeness it appears flat- 
tered. But from the transparency and purity of 
marble do not almost all statues seem so? Besides, 
Verboekhoven's face is not only reddish but also 
pockmarked, though not badly. ITeither of these 
blemishes appears in the marble. But the fact is 
that Verboekhoven, like the true artist that he is, 
idealizes, beautifies. 



FAVOEITE FLOWERS.* 



Can we tell why our favorite flowers speak to us 
as they do ? Were reason or botany the arbiter, it 
would not be easy to point to one flower among 
thousands — in woods or in garden — and say, Be- 
hold my favorite ! Luckily, individual liking is far 
more potent than science. By the verdict of that 
liking we exclaim, Give me the rose and I am 
content ! Let me inhale the breath of the wood- 
bine and I crave none of Lubin's extracts ! Send 
me a spray of trailing arbutus and the memory of 
it lasts all through the summer ! 

Why do people ramble through a garden in 
search of a particular rose ? of a spicy carnation ? 
of the tiny, bell-shaped, exquisitely-fragrant Ma- 
hernia? We need but few flowers to satisfy us, 
but these must meet our tastes. However simple, 
unlearned, or strange these are to others, to our- 
selves they yield ever-fresh delight. Why feel 
ashamed of even the lowliest predilections ? Better, 
indeed, try to keep them intact as at least one proof 

* Written in 1870. 

221 



222 FAVORITE FLOWERS. 

of individualitj. Let every one enjoy flowers his 
own way. I ask for one only of my favorites at a 
time, the pleasure being thus concentrated. Many 
forms, colors, and odors distract my faculties, scat- 
ter my affection. 

Did you ever see a large crepe myrtle in full 
bloom ? I wish you could see one now before me 
that has just reached perfection. What a ravishing 
sight is that mass of pink blossoms in the dazzling 
sunlight ! I can see it from my window, at a dis- 
tance, but standing beside it, as I did a few min- 
utes ago, the perfect beauty of it burst upon me 
like a revelation. Had I not been so well drilled a 
mortal I could have stood entranced. As it was, 
things material pressed upon the aesthetic sense, 
and while breaking off a small sprig there was the 
felt necessity of absorbing much in a brief space. 
Are not all the choicest gifts of the same fleeting 
nature, warning us even in the hour of enjoyment 
that there can be no permanency? A look, a 
word, a smile, a pressure of the hand, — have not 
these simple acts, when charged with sentiment, 
procured for us some of the dearest moments of 
existence? Yet what could be more evanescent, 
less tangible ? Here for a few brief seconds sense 
and soul are filled by these lovely flowers. I may 
not see them again, but the remembrance is last- 



FAVORITE FLOWERS. 223 

ing. I rejoice at having seen them, at having been 
stirred by their beauty and fragrance. It is the 
same with all that life has given and will continue 
to give. 

What singular beauty in a single leaf of this 
myrtle ! Suspended each from its own special 
point, the cluster is a marvel of transparency, deli- 
cate tints, careless grace, l^o wonder the ancients 
dedicated this flower to Venus ! Fitting emblem 
of a sentiment which defies both discipline and 
analysis. Farewell, sweet myrtle ! Bloom yet a 
few days to charm other eyes and hearts, and then 
fade away, like other fragrant blossoms immortal- 
ized in memory. 

Bouquets ! If of conventional type they give 
me more pain than pleasure. The flowers are torn 
from their native element of beauty and subjected 
to rude mechanism. They are wired, bandaged, 
yoked to sticks, forced to yield their sweetness to 
cold Fashion's behest. They cause me discomfort 
similar to that felt in a crowded room. The people 
are all good of their kind, whether useful, hand- 
some, witty, or graceful. All are worthy of respect, 
some are to be admired, a few loved for their own 
sake. Yet a mixed assemblage brings unpleas- 
antly close a juxtaposition of voices, manners, gar- 
ments, attitudes, all so interblended that personal 



224 FAVORITE FLOWERS. 

identity is lost. The e^^e sees many forms, the ear 
hears many confused tones, there is a general gri- 
macing and gesticulation, with the result that for 
the time being individual beauty and strength are 
invisible. 

Bouquets, indeed! Think of lowly violets 
walled in by self-asserting geraniums ! Of the 
aristocratic rose associated with the plebeian 
dahlia ! Of the aromatic carnation consorted with 
the scentless, flaccid petunia! Of dainty helio- 
trope and gaudy tulip side by side ! Of drooping 
lily-of-the-valley face to face with stately hyacinth ! 
Of sturdy spruce or arbor-vitse enclosing the peer- 
less camellia! Of delicate daphne overpowered 
by tuberose ! It is, perhaps, less shocking to see 
a number of kinds together, a gay miscellany of 
form and color, than strong contrasts. But even 
this is merely a result of taste vitiated by custom. 
The incongruity itself is not one whit less annoy- 
ing. 

Bouquets ! Whether festive, domestic, or fune- 
real, the flowers composing them are so distorted 
from their natural selves that they affect me pain- 
fully. Their odors are so intermingled that the 
potency of each is impaired. I lose all sense of 
pleasure, and am only unpleasantly affected by the 
melange. Let every one choose his own flowers, 



FAVORITE FLOWERS. 225 

and deal with them as he will. I shall not inter- 
fere with others if they cherish the hydrangea, 
the althea, the sunflower, nor remonstrate if they 
ask for fifty varieties compressed into a plateau, 
twisted into a crown, or built into a pyramid. 
Only, dear friend, whoever you may be, do not 
think me insensible to divine beauty if I refuse to 
admire those mechanisms. Let me stipulate for 
my favorite flowers, to be enjoyed in my own way. 
Through the senses, through the intellect, through 
the soul, let me absorb their delicious fragrance 
and beauty, intoxicated with their potency. Even 
if there are moments when I pass them with seem- 
ing indifference, — as I might pass a lovely child or 
not notice the glory of a sunset, — it does not mean 
that love has waxed cold, but that the expression 
of it is held in abeyance by some other interest. 
Can we, indeed, in a world proffering so bewilder- 
ing an array of attractions, both to sense and to 
thought, be at all times impartial in our treatment 
of the beautiful ? 



WOMEN WAGE-EARNEES. 



Where are the schools that teach girls first of 
all things the principles of self-support? They 
certainly are needed in a community. Thousands 
of young and even old women to-day are suffering 
because of the lack in early youth of instruction 
of this kind. If such schools do not exist, we may 
be sure education so called is not the great good 
that it pretends to be. It is not the boon it should 
be. Take the young woman, for example, who has 
been graduated from our public schools with highest 
honors. Is she well equipped, as she should be, to 
battle with the world, to be a wage-earner, if need 
be, in woman's natural sphere ? Verily not. She 
has, we may grant, an education so called, but not 
the kind that will benefit her the most for the 
domestic life she is sooner or later in all probability 
to enter upon. Young girls are rarely taught 
any handicraft in schools. They should be in- 
structed in some trade, in some form of manual 
work, or at least in housekeeping m one or more 
of its several branches. 



WOMEN WAGE-EARNERS. 227 

To-day or to-morrow our daughters may be 
forced through circumstances to become wage- 
earners. Through disaster they may be stripped 
of their fortunes, be they big or little. Let each 
woman ask herself, while there is still perhaps 
time. What could I do to earn a living ? What 
am I fitted for by my training? Education, 
whether in public or private schools or in homes, 
should first of all inculcate the idea and point to 
the child the power and the means of self-sup- 
port. This should be the first and most important 
desideratum, and should be regarded as an essential 
part of all education. 

This doctrine means a radical change in the 
present plan of education, exclaim a host of 
teachers ! Yes, undoubtedly, but the principle at 
stake is worthy of the change, however radical it 
may at first seem. All will admit that the present 
mode of education as an end to self-support is for 
the majority a sad failure. Witness the thousands 
of young women daily seeking employment un- 
successfully in the spheres for which they have had 
no special or thorough training. 

Ignorance begets helplessness. Many women, 
being ignorant of any special trade or work, 
knowing how to do no one thing even moderately 



228 WOMEN WAGE-EARNERS. 

well, howsoever humble the task may be, founder 
in their helplessness, appealing to friends and the 
public to save them, to help them. "Without thor- 
ough knowledge on some practical subject, not 
much can be done to give them the assistance they 
crave. 

Such a one applies to us for help, saying, " I 
need money; what do you advise me to do?" 

" What do you know how to do ?" 

" I have had the usual school education, and 
since ' finishing' I have been assisting at home." 

" Do you like house occupation ? is there any one 
part in the household management in which you 
take interest or pride ?" 

" No ; it seems great drudgery, a weary routine 
that leaves me depressed and helpless." 

" Outside of domestic affairs, then, what are your 
accomplishments ?" 

" I like teaching, I like nursing, I should like to 
study medicine, — but I cannot leave home now; 
my father is in feeble health. Can you not suggest 
some means whereby I may earn a comfortable 
living at home ?" 

Ah! poor, pitiable woman, no longer young, 
without a single accomplishment, unable to per- 
form any office in the eyes of the world worthy of 
special compensation, your case, like that of thou- 



WOMEN WAGE-EARNERS, 229 

sands, is nigh helpless. You have had no educa- 
tion to lit you to be a wage-earner ; you are pro- 
ficient in absolutely nothing for which the world is 
ready to pay you wages. The world does not 
want your services, such as they are, because you 
are in no way qualified. The fiiult, however, is not 
in you, but in the kind of education that you have 
had. 

The clue to the vexed question as to how the 
average woman shall earn wages is to be found in 
the two familiar words. Domestic Service. This is 
the most interesting and by far the most important 
phase of the whole subject. That kind of wage- 
earning is not merely open to all, but it is the 
working-woman's most natural sphere. It is her 
most healthful, useful, and profitable field of work. 
Thoroughly understood, it is the best qualification 
she can have for her highest possible social posi- 
tion, — marriage. She begins at the lowest rung of 
the domestic ladder, — housework. She has every 
opportunity to rise in the world. Understanding 
the best way of keeping a house clean, neat, at- 
tractive, she becomes qualified for the next step 
onward, to choose the kind of housework she pre- 
fers or is best fitted for, whether this be cook- 
ing, chamberwork, or sewing. 



230 WOMEN WAGE-EARNERS. 

The English term '^ upper" parlor maid signifies 
what we in the United States ought to recognize 
in house-service, — namely, advancement in wages 
and respect in proportion to skill, trustworthiness, 
good manners. Such advancement leads naturally 
to the one post most seriously needed in American 
homes of the wealthy, — the housekeeper. A large 
house with many servants is as much in need of a 
housekeeper, other than the mistress, as a factory 
is of a superintendent. That this post is so rarely 
filled in private houses in this country accounts for 
a well-known deplorable fact : the excessive " wear 
and tear" of the mistress. The losses from this are 
physical prostration, mental deterioration, gradual 
decline of grace and beauty. 

In cases of a medium household, comfortable 
without wealth, the Glerman custom of engaging 
a young lady who superintends the household, 
under the mistress, is good. This custom, for a 
small family or one of moderate wealth, might 
readily be adopted in America. Immense bene- 
fits would accrue directly to two people, — the mis- 
tress and the assistant, — and indirectly to the 
family and to the friends. It is not fair treatment 
that the mistress of a household should be re- 
quired to spend her strength and time over details 
that a young assistant could attend to with profit 



WOMEN WAQE-EARNERS. 231 

to both her character and pocket. Many good, 
well-educated American women married say at 
twenty are thoroughly ''worn out," therefore un- 
attractive, at forty, simply through the excess of 
household details. This is injustice to the woman 
and to her family and friends. The problem of 
domestic service is so interwoven with happy home 
life that it calls for the most serious attention on 
the part of social thinkers. The woman who does 
her best to develop this question is of the greatest 
positive value in her day to society. 

It is not necessary here to touch upon exceptional 
women; the artists, the students, the actresses, and 
the like,— women endowed with special gifts that 
stamp their career. Exceptional women, like ex- 
ceptional men, need no hints, no social legislation. 
They can always command both position and wages. 
Like the exceptional women in society or art, 
their sphere is decided by birthright or rare gifts. 
But it is the non-exceptional, the good, willing 
woman who has no special gifts and is not taught 
any one useful occupation, who needs help. Do- 
mestic economy is the all-important study that 
Americans of both sexes are called upon to culti- 
vate. 



DEUNKENNESS A CRIME. 



Crime is the same whether in a savage or in a 
Christian, in one sex or in the other. Among 
savages there are many distinctions as to cruel or 
ferocious disposition. One out of three is more 
kind or more brutal than the others. Among civ- 
ilized people it is precisely the same. There are 
always the criminals and those capable of becoming 
criminals. The tendencies to cruelty are incipient 
crimes. Those tendencies either exist in certain 
persons at birth, are inherited, or are grafted upon 
the individual through vicious associations. Both 
are potent, but especially the former. 

" When I assert that vices are inseparable from 
great and potent societies, and that it is impossible 
that wealth and grandeur should subsist without 
them, I do not say that the particular members of 
them who are guilty of any should not be continu- 
ally reproved, or not be punished for them when 
they grow into crimes." So wrote De Mandeville, 
and the two facts of the paragraph will doubtless 

232 



DRUNKENNESS A CRIME. 233 

hold good as long as the human race exists. Crime 
is as much a part of mankind as virtue is a part: 
restraint and punishment should follow as an es- 
sential means of defence for the favored — but not 
perhaps more virtuous — mortals who are not crim- 
inals. 

Crime is the same whether in Paris, in London, 
or in New York. If the foreign street Arab seem 
worse, it is only because he is more intelligent. 
Given the criminal propensity, the more brain the 
blacker the crime ; the same force of character — 
alias brain — the greater the invention, the daring, 
the crime. 

Inherited tendencies are the same in one country 
as in another. In England, in America, young 
criminals of every grade are to be found. What is 
civilization doing to-day to ameliorate or extermi- 
nate crime? The criminal classes here are formi- 
dable, especially so when the newness of the country 
and its extraordinary prosperity are considered. Is 
there even an attempt made topunish the drunk- 
ard ? Is he taken away from home, prevented from 
continuing the course of ruin ? Are the children 
of drunken parents removed and cared for by town 
or state ? The number of men in liquor — young 
and vigorous men — one meets every day coming 

out of saloons, on our thoroughfares, — and this 

16 



234 DRUNKENNESS A CRIME. 

at high noon, — shocks, repels, and saddens one. 
These joung, strong, well -dressed men are the 
fathers of the school-children we are spending 
millions upon. Yet the example of such young 
men — with bleared eyes, bloated faces, brutal pro- 
pensities — must inevitably counteract all that the 
best schools can do. l^o, civilization has done 
nothing to prevent crime of this kind. Nothing 
will be accomplished until it makes drunkenness, 
if not a crime, at least a disgrace. 

Years and years ago I became convinced that no 
kind of so-called charity could ever be of lasting 
good until drunkenness should be treated as a 
crime. Of what use to have charitable institutions 
for every sort of human ill, so long as the root of 
suffering is left to spread its poisonous branches all 
through social life ? But let drunkenness be pun- 
ished with heavy fines, with imprisonment with en- 
forced labor, and presently you will make men see 
that they cannot continue with impunity to be 
human fiends, wife- and children-starvers, wife- and 
children-tormentors, wife- and children-murderers. 
There is no other possible way to treat drunkenness. 
Men and women who cannot control their appetite 
for drink must be controlled by the state or civic 
law. They must be punished for their crimes of 
excess and brutality. 



DRUNKENNESS A CRIME. 235 

The fight against an inherited taste seems end- 
less, hopeless. How many years have you — ^you 
who have inherited this tendency to crime — heen in 
the fight ? Since the beginning of life itself, possi- 
bly, although all through early years and middle 
life you did not know the incubus that weighed 
upon aim and endeavor, — ay, upon conscience 
itself. You are drawn, dragged, driven from your 
goal by the awful forces of circumstance, — the cross- 
purposes of heredity added to your little social 
world. 

Soul-sore, indeed! Oh, the climbing, climbing 
up to the peak your mind's eye discerned long 
years ago ! There, far up, countless leagues away 
from your actual foothold, is the goal that at the 
start seemed so easy to reach. Joyously you set 
off, confidently you went on and on, never for an 
instant losing faith in your inner conviction; yet 
where are you now ? Soul-sore, sick and faint from 
the struggle with the world-forces you learned to 
recognize all too late. Had you at starting in that 
heyday of youth been told of the trials and ob- 
stacles on the way, what a different career would 
have been yours ! 



HAPPINESS OR UlSTHAPPINESS. 



If required to answer in one sentence the ques- 
tion, For whom is life not worth living? I should 
say, For the one who asks this question. And 
why this reply? The reasons are readily found. 
Looking at the people about us, we notice few who 
are disfigured physically, few cripples, few blind, 
few starving, few who are maltreated. There are, 
moreover, few who are incapacitated by nature for 
gaining a living. Then why are there so many 
suffering, unhappy people, so many who ask. Is 
life worth living ? The answer to this momentous 
question is to be found in the individual himself; 
in the very one who makes the query. 

Looking into the lowest stratum of society, the 
men and women in menial positions, we find the 
same characteristics existing here as in the highest 
classes. If there is daily faithful work, wages are 
proportionately given and the worker is content. 
Doing his best to-day, the morrow is certain to 
bring him more work and more skill in its exe- 
cution. No one thus occupied is found to be un- 

236 



HAPPINESS OR UNHAPPINESS, 237 

happy. It is this daily faithful work— whether on 
the road or in the artist's studio— that makes the 
contented man. Look on the other side of society, 
at the eager, craving, ease-loving, pleasure-seeking 
men and women, and we see without looking far 
vivid illustrations of unhappiness, and hence of 
worthless lives. 

Among the many causes of what may be termed 
misery, lack of self-control is especially to be 
cited. This must include the illnesses, bodily and 
mental, arising from the use of stimulants and nar- 
cotics, from excesses in food and pleasure, from 
disappointments resulting from vanity and desire 
for praise, and the like. Misery, in short, may be 
defined as the fruit of wrong-doing, in which must 
be distinguished that arising from our own conduct 
and that resulting from the conduct of others. 
Poverty, degradation of mind and heart, theft, 
murder, lust, cruelty exercised by the strong over 
the weak, and the entire list of human vices and 
miseries, are, when analyzed, all traceable to natural 
causes. Over these causes no earthly power can 
prevail save self-control, the habit and will of the 
individual. Success or failure, happiness or misery, 
in life depends largely upon the use we make of this 
potent factor, control,— the power of intelligence or 
force over natural tendencies or weaknesses. With 



238 HAPPINESS OR UNHAPPINESS, 

the exercise of self-control men and nations are en- 
titled to respect, but without this power they are 
weak and unworthy of esteem. 

To be unhappy yourself is to make others so. 
To live under the same roof with an unhappy 
person is to live in purgatory. To associate with 
unhappy people, whether in high life or in the 
working-classes, is to be convinced that such a state 
of mind is life's greatest curse. Happiness or con- 
tentment — whichever name you may choose to give 
it — is, then, a state of mind. To impress this obser- 
vation upon the child, upon the man, the woman, 
is to help people and to give them the clue to a 
happy life. Life is worth living for him w^ho works 
faithfully, steadily, unremittingly. Work is the 
cure for unhappiness. Work is the remedy for 
every phase of discontent. Work makes life beau- 
tiful instead of repulsive. Work brings comfort of 
body, culture to the intellect, peace to the soul. 
Work is the paradise of mortal life. 



SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 



Intensity of thinking and feeling is perhaps, 
after all, the best that the world can give us,— the 
best that man can know of the condition we call 
Life. What person can carry out his plans fully ? 
Who can develop his ideas satisfactorily ? Who in 
any way can express his being as the soul prompts ? 
Must not the noblest endeavor of the noblest man 
remain far short of the conception ? 

To live and learn is a dictum trite enough and 
simple enough, yet an astonishing number of per- 
sons seem to find it not only difiicult but even 
impossible. In vain are the grand lessons of life 
preached to them, and in vain are they disappointed, 
chagrined, rebuifed, and mortified. They see and 
hear, are ready enough to criticise others who fall 
into error, mischief, and folly, but as regards their 
own afiairs they are incorrigible. 

Ignorance, negligence, self-indulgence, — what 
lessons do they not teach us ? And yet note how 
the masses contrive to elude the unpleasant truths 
and to live on superficially or recklessly. The les- 



239 



240 SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 

sons learned from teachers and books have their 
uses, no doubt, but those which really penetrate, 
arouse, and excite our being are the practical ones 
of daily life. These make us feel the humiliating 
effect of ignorance, the incessant worry consequent 
upon improvidence, the losses sustained through 
carelessness, the ruinous effect of intemperance, the 
certain results of wavering and irresolution. In 
a word, life with its ten thousand varied phases 
teaches us all we most need. Lessons come before 
us daily, adapted to each individual capacity, so 
that, justly considered, there can be no possible 
excuse for ignorance or error. 

Impartially investigated, the long list of so-called 
misfortunes would be found to consist largely 
of indolence, frivolity, extravagance, and ill-regu- 
lated passions. And in beholding, as we contin- 
ually do, the self-indulgence and laxity of prin- 
ciple amid the so-called higher classes, among the 
favored by education and fortune, we cannot won- 
der at the degree of abasement too frequently 
reached by the untrained, uncared-for, and poverty- 
stricken masses. What a vain, hollow, and even 
hypocritical sound must lessons of morality have 
to the weak and suffering when promulgated from 
the heights of luxurious ease and enjoyment! 
And yet, natural as this seems, it cannot be denied 



SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 241 

that this sphere has its trials and temptations no 
less than the other. 

What is real and tangible in life save this mental 
consciousness of our own being ? Living accord- 
ing to the accepted standard of a million others, 
never for an hour diverging from established cus- 
tom, submitting in joy as well as in sorrow to an 
imitation often absurd and sometimes contempti- 
ble, men generally are in danger of forgetting that 
there is such a thing as individual responsibility. 
To escape from mental imprisonment should be 
our chief thought and earnest longing. Nor is it 
with any selfish view of enjoyment that this wish 
should be harbored, but solely to obey a higher 
command than any hitherto listened to. We 
would be free, not to be idle and self-indulgent, 
but for the sake of devoting our ability, what- 
ever be its degree, to some useful purpose; of 
giving the best of conscious life to the loftiest con- 
ception of that intellect called " our own." 

Partial decay does not necessarily impair the lus- 
ciousness of the whole fruit. Thus, by removing 
a certain portion, where the worm or decay has 
destroyed, the rest may be eaten with impunity. So 
in character, defects even if grave do not necessa- 



242 SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 

rily render it valueless or ugly. By veiling, exten- 
uating, tolerating, or pitying, — removing morally 
the unsightly or injurious part, — the man may be 
esteemed and even loved. If perfection be found, 
let us appreciate, reverence, or love with all the 
warmth of which we are capable. But if there be 
only partial goodness, soundness, or beauty, let us 
also give of our respect and love. In proportion 
it must undoubtedly be, but the principle will 
enable us to find something in every one of our 
fellow-creatures to honor as well as to rebuke. 

To have an object in life means much for every 
human being. For the thinking man it is the first 
step to be taken bearing directly upon his happi- 
ness. To have this is to possess something which 
will cause forgetfulness of the unavoidable petty an- 
noyances of the present. This, after all, is the main 
need for men and women who have outgrown toys 
and whose energies yet call for occupation. How 
it quickens vitality and lends a new interest to 
even the meaner details of a career to rise in the 
morning and know there is one thing which no 
one else could perform with the same pleasure 
or skill, and which removes all inclination for 
lounging or indolence ! To feel that the new day 
is to bring healthful exercise of the soul's highest 



SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 243 

faculties; that, whatever the surroundings, the 
mind is not to become subordinate to the many 
time-killing expedients of the fashionable world or 
of self-complacent mediocrity ; that, in defiance of 
the pressure of custom and the enervating in- 
fluences so prevalent in society, there is to be a 
steady development of the mind's ruling idea: 
— ^this is, indeed, living for an object ! 

To the scholar meditation brings satisfaction 
greater than that found in youth, in travel, in ad- 
miration, or even in love. In all of those expe- 
riences are hinderances, imperfections, fears. Each 
passing year impresses the brevity of youth ; each 
worldly advantage has its drawback. Travel brings 
discomfort and anxiety to mar the effect of novel 
sights and sounds. Society demands toil and much 
sacrifice of individuality before it yields its pleas- 
ures. Admiration never fails to awaken an inward 
doubt as to merit. While love,— that intoxicating 
essence, that idealized reality,— is not its fleeting 
nature an ever-tantalizing joy ? But in meditation 
there is nothing to mar, trouble, or fear. Every 
moment brings not only its own special delight, 
but also the assurance of countless additional ones. 
With the intellect roused to action, the entire 
world acquires a new and more vivid glow of 



244 SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 

interest. On the earth's surface, in the ocean's 
depths, in the thronged firmament, in the entire 
realm of the " Known" and the " Unknown," are 
myriads of wonders awaiting our minds. 

To some people impulses are more real than 
houses, jewels, and raiment are to others. Hence 
when such people are urged by an inexplicable 
inner life to desert what they are engaged in and 
put interest and vitality into another field, the 
command cannot be disobeyed save at the cost of 
self-respect and content. 

An impulse always means something, and if we 
fail to heed it we voluntarily reject one of the chief 
sources of happiness. It must be genuine, a part 
of the very self, coming as it does unlooked for, 
uncalled for, unwished. When we understand how 
it comes we shall likewise understand how we 
breathe, move, think, enjoy, and sufier, how and 
why we live. 

How save through yielding to a strong inner 
impulse have men and women in any age elevated 
themselves above the mass ? Can the convention- 
alist, the social slave, the sluggard, or the sensual- 
ist, ever hope to develop his higher nature, that 
which will give heart and intellect a chance for 
supremacy ? 



SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 245 

I know of nothing that gives such pure delight 
as helping a fellow-creature ; and the greatest mis- 
take one can make is in thinking this can be done 
only by means of money, food, or raiment. Inval- 
uable as these are in certain cases, they are, after 
all, but a very small portion of our available re- 
sources. Sympathy, encouragement, hope, advice, 
knowledge, affection, time, strength, and expe- 
rience may all appropriately come under the head 
of gifts. "Well for us, well for the world, if this 
were borne in mind before pronouncing judgment 
upon generosity or meanness. We should learn to 
be more calm and lenient in judgment, — to look 
less to the mere outward manifestation, and to 
attach greater value to the entire character. 

Some of the clearest minds and truest hearts 
have fallen into a condition of being in which all 
things seem to lose their identity and under delu- 
sive names lead to error and misery. Whatever 
of Eeason be given, let it be guarded with un- 
wearied care and strengthened by every possible 
means, so that when judgment becomes necessary 
in an important hour it may be rendered unhesi- 
tatingly. If Reason is to answer its end, it should 
be untrammelled by any sense of pleasure, passion, 
or gratified vanity. Clear and simple the question 



246 SOME LESSONS OF LIFE. 

should come to us, Is the step we are about to 
take right or wrong, wise or foolish ? Clear and 
unmistakable in tone should come the reply, for or 
against the action. 



THE WOED SOUL. 



The human soul, mind, spirit, the ego ! Why so 
many terms for the same thing ? After all these 
centuries of thought in the same direction hy so 
many hard students, is there not yet one word to 
express what everybody acknowledges to himself? 
You who read this, you who write this, we all well 
know the intense, vivid, incessant vitality that starts 
in yourself at the first moment of awaking to a 
new day. You can recall it as it was in earliest 
childhood, — in its chief qualities the same then as 
to-day in your maturity. You have never ceased 
wondering over its persistency in urging, driving, 
goading you towards certain fixed points. Mind, 
soul, spirit, the ego, the self, your self,— ah, what a 
very simple fact it is when you call it hy that last 
name! The youngest child can understand that 
term, the profoundest philosopher can go no farther. 
He may write many volumes on the ego and its rela- 
tions to other ideas of the same mysterious essence, 
yet never come any nearer to wisdom than the little 



247 



248 THE WORD SOUL. 

child who thinks, feels, enjo^^s, suffers, and is quite 
certain of his own identity as a special fact. 

Of all explorations in this w^onderful world of 
ours, nothing can compare in interest and in value 
to mankind with that of the soul. I select this word 
because among all the other words for the same thing 
it seems to express more of the wht)le fact, — the self. 
Mind to most people means merely the thinking 
machine, a something apart from heart, alias sensi- 
bilities, feelings : as, in common parlance, a man 
may have a good mind and a bad heart. All this 
is needlessly confusing. Put it to yourself Your 
mind is clear — in certain directions. It can see 
and do, can receive and give out, in ways familiar 
to yourself and a few others. The next point to 
prove is in w^hat respect your heart or soul or spirit 
is a distinct and separate faculty. 

You are naturally either generous or close, — say 
with your money, your sympathies, your possessions 
of any kind. What makes you so ? Is it not the 
impulse, either way, direct from your mind ? Is it 
not there that impulses good and other are born, — 
impulses meaning justice, charity, generosity, as 
well as their antipodes ? Is your mind's outlook a 
narrow, selfish one, your character is precisely that. 
But the world's acceptance of the word mind is dis- 
tinct from heart, while soul is different from either. 



SOME THOUGHTS ON RELIGION. 



Prayer is nothing without holiness of life. In 
vain shall we cling to the altars of the temple, to 
human strength and sympathy, or even to works 
of charity, if our souls are not in perfect accord 
with the Most High. 

Is not prayer an asking ? And can men dare to 
ask for that which they make no effort of their own 
to acquire ? 

Is there sanctity in any of the offices of religion 
so long as a man knowingly partakes of that which 
injures body and soul ? 

Can the deepest of sighs or the most fervent of 
promises avail aught if there remain in the heart a 
consciousness of wilful laxity in one even of the 
fundamental principles of life ? 

Of what avail the clasped hands, the suppliant at- 
titude, the streaming eye, the fervent words,— any 

17 249 



250 SOME THOUGHTS ON RELIGION. 

or all of the evidences of devotion, — if the life be not 
in harmony with selfhood ? Prayer is a mockery 
unless this harmony exists. Why ask for aid when 
within there is a fund of strength as yet untouched ? 

Prayer is the highest phase of communion with 
the Unseen. But this phase cannot be produced at 
will. It is simply an effect of moral and mental 
qualities in the individual. 

Prayer — that unrestricted outpouring of the soul's 
best life to the ear of the Most High — is a means 
of which the time and mode of using must be left 
to the choosing of each separate soul. If a place 
for spiritual activity be found in the church, it is 
well ; if in the home circle, in the sanctum, in pub- 
lic works, in private charity, in social life, in teach- 
ing, reforming, meditating, working, inventing, 
studying, it is also well. 

For what are we struggling, toiling, praying, 
hoping ? We should restrain our impatience, look 
calmly upon life as it is, do what in us lies, and for- 
bear to murmur at the barriers which limit action. 
We should concentrate our being into the highest 
of which we can conceive, work conscientiously in 
our appointed sphere, and strive unceasingly to see 



SOME THOUGHTS ON RELIGION. 251 

more and more clearly through the veil which this 
earthly habitation spreads before our eyes. 

True life means the assimilation of action to con- 
ception. :N'ot what we should like to be, but what 
we feel :N"ature means and gives us the power to be, 
should be our standard. 

As living in its fullest sense is the best prepara- 
tion for death, so the particular manifestations of 
this living can be justified only by revelation from 
within. :N'ot what we would fain do, but what w-e 
feel specially urged to do by reason and conscience, 
must decide our course at all periods of our exist- 
ence. 

The use we make of existence is a voluntary act, 
strong or weak, good or bad, helpful or hurtful. 
To appeal to the Most High to make us better, to 
control our actions, to keep us from sin, is an evasion 
of a far more difficult act, — the controlling of self 
Our religious convictions should centre in this one 
truth, — self-mastery. If we have not this we have 
nothing. Without this force w^e are as infidels, as 
heathens, as individuals to be feared, to be abhorred, 
to be ostracized ; but with it we may claim a place 
on a footing with the highest and best of men. 



252 SOME THOUGHTS ON RELIGION. 

Humanity, as a system of philosophy, offers us 
material for a lifetime of meditation and research; 
but systems, however admirable as feats of logic, 
are valuable only as aids and incentives to the study 
of humanity. How is it possible to have never so 
slight a conception of the meaning of the term 
Divinity save through the human intellect ? Prim- 
itive people paint the Deity or make stone images 
of him, — and after whose likeness ? Man's, and no 
other, and this because any other would be beyond 
human ability. 

Keligion, like love, should be held sacred, and 
should never be permitted to enter into general 
conversation. Who can say he understands these 
two great mysteries ? Until he does, why should 
they be dragged in and confounded with material 
matters ? 

IS'ot by what we believe, but by what we do, by 
what we are, should we be judged. iTot the belief, 
but the life, should be the standard for self and for 
others, and whatever is doubtful should be sub- 
mitted to this test. 

Keligion without honest conviction is mockery. 



''SIMPLIFY THY LIFE. 

(a vision.) 



It came upon me suddenly, as if in answer to 
certain thoughts which had been flitting through 
my brain. Startled, bewildered, dazzled, I stood 
as if transfixed, and during the few moments it 
lasted I was unconscious even of breathing. It had 
the form of a sage, — was tall, stately, slightly 
bowed, with noble head, and soft, flowing, silvery 
hair. Thought, experience, strife, suffering, had 
worn deep lines and furrows in the face, and at the 
first glance it struck me as the saddest I had ever 
seen. But at the second look this impression wore 
away. A peculiar, beautiful light diffused itself 
over the head and countenance, removing every- 
thing harsh or painful, putting strange and won- 
derful meanings into those deep lines and furrows. 
Power seemed given me to read them all. My 
heart bounded at the thought, but the time was too 
short for a close reading, and a hasty impression 
was all I could retain. 

It was as if I stood face to face with another soul, 

253 



254 ''SIMPLIFY THY LIFE.'' 

all earthly barriers removed, while the atmosphere 
was pure and heavenly. The eyes searched mine, 
held them fast, then the lips moved. Eagerly I 
leaned forward, fearing something, some word, 
might escape me, but there was no need. Each 
sound was clear, perfect, and came without hesita- 
tion or effort. Never had I heard such a voice, — 
one so distinct, so mellow, so tender, — one so full 
of soul ! The exact words I cannot recall, but the 
sense remains ringing in my ears unceasingly. It 
ran thus : 

" My child, simplify thy life ! All thy weal here 
and beyond depends upon this ! Thy soul is now 
going through an ordeal. I see the struggles and 
temptations, the weary efforts, efforts which will 
avail thee naught as long as thou clingest to earthly 
supports. Let go those weak, worthless threads 
which bind thee to custom, and cling to the golden 
chain which in rare moments thou art permitted 
to see, and which is firmly stapled in Paradise. I 
see the answer leaping from thy lips, — ' I would, I 
would, but know not how nor where to begin !' 
How ? "Where ? But I say to thee, my child, it 
matters not how or where. Only begin, and w^ith- 
out delay, for thy time is short. Look to it that 
the moments and opportunities of each day escape 
thee not! And think not to do this thino: without 



''SIMPLIFY THY LIFE.'' 255 

much tribulation ! Many and acutely painful will 
be the pangs, but only thus may the goal be won. 
If at times they seem too hard to bear and thou art 
tempted to succumb, remember the past, and, above 
all, remember the present. Hast thou always been, 
art thou now always, happy, serene, at peace wdth 
thyself and with the unseen ? Hast thou not been, 
art thou not even now, crushed by a Aveight called 
* essentials,' but which thy inner self truly regardeth 
as ' non-essentials' ? Under this weight hast thou 
not had, hast thou not even now, much to endure ? 
Hast thou not known the meaning of silent pain ? 
In this new life to which I would lead thee there 
is also pain, sorrow, disappointment, yet less in 
degree than what thou hast already endured. 
Behold thy encouragement ! Weep if thou wilt, 
as the old, familiar landmarks one by one disap- 
pear, but press on, on, on. At the end thy grief 
shall be turned to joy, — to joy unspeakable !" 

With these words the sage moved, and stretched 
forth his hands towards me. I would fain have 
seized them, but could not. A consciousness of 
unworthiness came over me. Involuntarily I sank 
upon my knees, bowed my head low. And then 
the hands rested upon me with a gentle, firm 
pressure, while the voice continued : 

" May Heaven help thee, my child, in the work 



256 ''SIMPLIFY THY LIFE.'' 

before thee ! To me has it been assigned to point 
out, to guide, to urge, but, alas, only for a time ! 
IIow long this influence may be permitted I cannot 
tell, nor would it be well for thee to have such 
knowledge. My experience is far beyond thine, 
my discipline widely different, yet our souls are 
related, and in their aspirations meet on common 
ground. Farewell, — and remember my words, — 
^Simplify thy life!'" 

I lifted my eyes, but saw naught. The sage had 
vanished. I remained long on bended knees buried 
in deep, solemn thought with palpitating heart. 
Silence filled the room. The autumn twilight stole 
gently in the western window. I threw open the 
sash and took long draughts of the pure, fresh air, 
which seemed charged with unwonted strength- 
giving properties. 

Yes, yes, thou art right. Thou hast given me 
strength ; a new and better life is before me. 



THE END. 



